


Inevitable

by HIMluv



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, F/M, Filler scenes, Fluff, Mostly Canon Compliant, Slow Burn, because solas and his dumb "considerations", but probably won't, canon depictions of violence, coping with emotions, should they/shouldn't they, some altered dialogue, they definitely should
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 64,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HIMluv/pseuds/HIMluv
Summary: A series of linked oneshots, following Riallan Lavellan through her journeys with the Inquisition, and her doomed relationship with a certain bald elf.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan
Comments: 61
Kudos: 90





	1. The Whole World Changed

Solas swung his staff and unleashed the well of frigid cold that had gathered in his chest. A jagged chunk of ice hurtled away from him and into the face of a shade. The spirit shrieked and writhed before collapsing away into the frozen earth. Still, after a year, it surprised him how much effort it took to call on his magic. Once it had been less than an after thought, an innate action like blinking.

But now, in the biting chill of the steppes of the Frostbacks, sweat streaked down his temple. Solas was wearing down. He couldn’t keep up fighting the demons and shades that continued to pour from the roiling green rift above them.

Behind him the sharp clack of Varric’s crossbow announced another deadly bolt hurtling across the battlefield. He turned in time to see the arrow find its mark in the head of a Rage demon.

“We can’t keep this up, Chuckles!” Varric hoisted his weapon and took aim, before releasing another bolt.

Solas spun his staff and gritted his teeth. “Just a moment longer.”

“If you say so.” The thunk and shriek of another bolt sinking into flesh.

He couldn’t explain to the dwarf why he believed Cassandra and the prisoner were close. His story about being a hapless wanderer, a self-made scholar of the Fade, was fragile enough. If he admitted that he could sense the mark in the prisoner’s hand drawing nearer, that the power thrummed and called to him, like a child lost in the fog, well…

Even he could not spin that tale in such a way that Varric Tethras, a notable storyteller in his own right, would believe.

He slung another barrage of ice at a shade as it materialized from the rift, but he could only assume his attack landed. The edges of his awareness went white, brighter than the sun reflecting off the snow, so bright that his eyes stung even though there was no visible light.

The prisoner stood atop the wall that directed the battlefield. Her mouth set in a hard line and her gaze dashing over the scene, scrutinizing and strategizing. Her dark hair was cut tight to the sides of her head, with just a fingers’ length on top. It contrasted with her pale, gently freckled skin to make her look almost ill.

Perhaps she was. She had nearly died after all, and with the Breach unstable she was surely in pain. All the more reason to hurry this along.

She dropped down into the snow and withdrew a plain, steel staff from behind her back. Solas had known she was a mage, of course. He’d spent so much time with her, keeping her alive against the fury of his own displaced magic, that he knew a startling amount about her body.

Especially considering he didn’t even know her name.

She swung her staff in a graceful figure-eight, slamming the butt of the weapon into the snow and calling down a series of lightning bolts to help clear the field.

“Quickly,” he shouted, taking her hand. “Before more come through.”

The mark hummed and pulsed at his touch, but she didn’t cry out. He marveled at how warm her skin was against his, at the shock that snapped at him. The remnants of her lightning energy, no doubt.

She didn’t pull away from him, didn’t demand answers. When he held her hand to the air and commanded the energy in her palm to commune with the rift, she watched with an almost sickly fascination. When the rift fought back, lashing out and drawing her in, she gritted her teeth and planted her feet.

But she never made a sound.

Solas found he was desperate to hear her voice. After long days and nights spent watching over her in those dim cells, seeing her washed in that green glow, her eyes a swirling mirror of the rift, he was utterly enchanted.

The rift closed with a crash, and she stared at her hand. It took him a moment to realize that his was still locked around her wrist. He released her immediately, and she blinked as if awaking from a spell.

“What did you do?” Her voice was gentle, a breeze rustling the springtime leaves in Arlathan. It was clear and cool, like stepping through an Eluvian for the very first time. It was prettier than he could have imagined.

He shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. “I did nothing,” he said. It was a lie, of course. Without his gentle instruction, the mark would have flickered and throbbed, but never reached out to the rift. If she were clever, and if her magic proved powerful enough, she would continue to close the rifts as if by instinct. The mark knew its purpose now. His purpose.

He smiled at her, a little sheepishly. “The credit is yours.” He willed her to see him as nothing more than a lowly apostate, but she continued to watch him with wide green eyes that saw too much.

She closed her hand into a fist and then stretched it again. “You mean this?” She looked at the mark on her palm with curiosity and a flicker of pain. But not hatred. Not fear. Her dark green vallaslin, a testament to Dirthamen, made it plain to him that she was a spy, and her magic buzzed in a subtle layer around her skin.

A dangerous woman indeed.

He took a step closer to her, his face animated as warmth blossomed on his cheeks. “Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake,” he grinned, “and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra said.

He glanced at the Seeker, struggling to keep his tone neutral. “Possibly.” He returned his attention to the elf before him and a wry smile twisted at his mouth. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

She frowned at that, a delicate crease forming between her black brows. She was uncomfortable with the spotlight, it seemed. More evidence for his spy theory.

Varric interrupted then, in typical Tethras fashion. With drama and crass language, and a noble effort to get under the Seeker’s skin. Once the banter became fairly specific, the elf turned back to face him.

“My name is Solas,” he said, “if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

She tilted her head, but there was no confusion in her eyes.

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric said.

“Is that so?” She pursed her lips, her expression owlish and endearing. Like a child determined to solve a particularly complicated puzzle. “You seem to know a great deal about it all.”

Warning bells rang in Solas’ head, but before he could backtrack or cover his competence with a convenient lie, Cassandra spoke.

“Like you, Solas is an apostate.”

It took considerable effort not to roll his eyes. “Technically, all mages are apostates now, Cassandra.” It wasn’t that he disliked the Seeker. She was an honest, devoted, and hard-working woman. But she was also righteous and devout, which made her a threat to not only his plans, but potentially his life.

He turned his attention back to the elf. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade,” he said. “Far beyond the experience of any Circle Mage.”

A sudden hunger leapt up like flames in her eyes. She looked him up and down, weighing his words against his appearance, measuring him as he had measured her these past few days.

“I come to offer whatever help I can with the Breach. If it is not closed, then we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

She was surprised at that, which was understandable. The Dalish were hardly known for their neighborly attitudes towards the humans. And the city elves were little better than slaves. Very few elves would sacrifice to help in the struggles of man. And yet, here he was, in the lion’s den.

So much for blending in.

She looked over his shoulder at the furious, roiling sea of green in the sky. She sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

She turned toward the faint trail that led down to a frozen lake, following Varric and Cassandra as they continued to argue. She paused at the top of the path and waited for him to draw even with her.

“Riallan,” she said. “First of Clan Lavellan of the Free Marches.” She blushed, the faintest blossom of color on her cheeks. “Thank you for all your help.”

They watched each other for a moment and then he nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, Riallan.” Then he stepped down the trail and hurried to join the others before they walked into more trouble. It took a moment, but he heard her feet crunch through the snow as she chased after him.

It brought a smile to his face.


	2. Impossible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: This one is set during In Hushed Whispers, from Solas' pov in the "real" timeline.

The Herald was gone. One moment she stood before Alexius, Dorian at her side, and then the Magister’s magic slowed and distorted time. In the blink of an eye Dorian reacted, swinging his staff and countering the spell. But something went wrong. A hole opened in the Veil, or something very much like it, and then Riallan and Dorian were gone.

“What the shit?” Iron Bull said, searching the throne room for any sign of the two mages.

Cassandra drew her blade and leveled it at Alexius. “What have you done with them?”

He grinned, sinister and malicious, the iconic image of a Tevinter Magister. “I removed them from this timeline.”

“Impossible,” Cassandra growled.

Solas knew she was wrong, though for once, he couldn’t begin to explain how. This was entirely new, something that had never existed in the time of Arlathan. Something very dangerous, and yet… intriguing, if what the magister said was true.

Beside him, Iron Bull had pulled his great axe. “Then bring them back,” he said.

Alexius laughed. “There is no coming back.”

Solas’ stomach dropped and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. If the Herald was truly gone, then so was the Anchor. Their only hope to seal the Breach and defeat this mysterious adversary. His only hope to restore his power.

No. There must be some way to retrieve her. He just needed more time.

“What can be done can be undone,” Cassandra said.

He hoped that was true, on many fronts. He was about to suggest they take the Magister back to Haven when the air thickened around them. The smell of ozone, that ripe earthen smell mingled with electricity and rain filled the room, charging the air.

“Get back!” Solas called to his companions. The warriors heeded his warning, both with weapons at the ready, as once more a hole opened in the air.

Dorian and Riallan stepped through, filthy with blood and ichor. He’d never seen the Herald so pale, even when he’d watched over her after she survived the blast at the Conclave. They’d been gone mere moments, but she looked as if she’d suffered a lifetime. Even Dorian was ashen under his bronze skin. Riallan met his gaze and the relief on her face at the sight of him made his gut clench.

What had happened to them? Where had Alexius sent them?

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian said.

Riallan spun on Alexius, her fear and relief transforming into a fury unlike any Solas had seen from her. “You failed, Alexius.” The words were pure venom on her lips. “How forgiving is your Elder One?”

The magister sank to his knees, wilting in the face of her wrath. “You have won,” he said. “There is no point extending this charade.”

Her lip curled, as if his acquiescence disappointed her. Her fists clenched at her sides, trembling with rage she wouldn’t set free. For a moment Solas thought she might punch him, or worse, unleash her fury in a burst of lightning, killing the magister. Instead she turned her back to him, to them.

She stood still while Felix and Alexius spoke, but that stillness was unnatural, forced. Solas knew she stood at the throne of Redcliffe, her back to them all, and fought with the flood of emotions coursing through her. Riallan was a calm woman, she spoke with surety of mind and spirit. She wasn’t prone to emotional displays and was intensely private. That she struggled now was a testament to the horror she and Dorian experienced.

“Take him to Haven,” she said, and at once the gathered Inquisition soldier’s moved to escort the magister out of Redcliffe.

Solas thought that, once the magister was gone, the Herald might relax, but she was never given the opportunity. The Queen of Ferelden marched in to berate the Grand Enchanter and the Herald, a fraught conversation Solas wanted nothing to do with. Lucky for him, Dorian chose that moment to speak to him.

“We can’t have been gone very long,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial in the throne room. He leaned on his staff, though he did it elegantly enough that it looked purposeful, and not done out of need.

He shook his head. “Just a few moments. Long enough for Cassandra and the Iron Bull to argue with him.” Solas gave the tevinter mage a curious glance. “The magister said he removed you from this timeline. Where did you go?”

Dorian scowled, then looked at Riallan. “The future,” he said. The words were black on his tongue. “A future where she’d been gone for a year.”

“A full year! What had happened in the interim? What of this Elder One?”

Dorian held up a hand to stymie the flow of questions. “It was… gruesome. I’d rather not speak of it, if it’s all the same to you.”

Solas was about to argue, to ask for more information, when Riallan’s voice cut through the room, silencing the Queen and bringing a hush to all who heard it.

“None of this would have happened if the mages had been free.” She glared at the Queen and at Fiona. “Escaping one cage just to find another, a worse one!” The rage she’d been carrying since reappearing in the room threatened to boil over now. But she looked up, saw him watching her, and her gaze softened. She took a deep breath, her eyes closed, and unclenched her fists where they hung at her sides.

Then she looked at the Grand Enchanter. “The Inquisition offers an alliance to the rebel mages of Thedas,” she said. “If you accept, you will be treated as equals.” Anora and Cassandra both gasped at that. Riallan glared at them each in turn, before offering a small smile to Fiona.

“You will be free.”

His stomach clenched at her words even as his heart soared. He wondered if things would have been different, if she’d been by his side in Arlathan. Maybe he would have stayed, declined the escape of Uthenera and remained to guide his people in the terrible aftermath of his machinations.

But she wasn’t in Arlathan. She was here, in this broken ghost of a world, with a spirit too bright to be denied. She was an impossible woman doing marvelous and impossible things.

Like making him long for the impossible too.


	3. Small Comforts

Solas found her outside Haven, sitting at the edge of the rocky cliff that jutted out over the frozen lake. He paused to consider Riallan before she noticed his presence. She sat with her back to the village and her arms draped on her knees, face turned up to the sky and her eyes closed. She would look peaceful, perhaps even meditative, if it weren’t for the deep crease in her brow and the hard press of her lips. 

She’d been quiet since Redcliffe, distant and withdrawn. Riallan wasn’t what he’d call talkative, but she always exuded warmth. That promise that, if you wanted to talk, she would be happy to listen. Now she was cold, shut-off from the rest of her companions. He’d heard snippets and rumors of what she’d seen in the dark future Alexius had sent her to, and it sounded unpleasantly familiar. He’d expected her to celebrate the victory of thwarting that future, instead she was troubled, even grieving. 

He did not understand.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and opened her eyes. He was surprised to see the tears gathered there, though none had fallen yet. He let the snow crunch under his feet as he approached her, and she dabbed at her eyes discreetly. 

“Aneth ara, hahren,” she said. She cleared her throat and looked up at him. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

He sank to sit beside her. “Ir abelas, da’len. I am used to treading lightly.”

She smiled, a fragile thing on her pale lips. “To avoid those giant spiders.”

He chuckled. “Yes. And others who might take issue with an elven apostate wandering the wilds.”

Her smile faltered and she looked away from him. “It must have been lonely,” she said, the words so soft the wind nearly erased them.

A frown flickered across his face before he restored the calm mask he always wore. “Sometimes it was, yes.” He could not convey just how alone he’d felt in the last year. How displaced. She, at least, could write to her clan and receive updates, reassured by the knowledge that they still existed in the world.

He could not.

“I am accustomed to being alone, however,” he said instead.

She turned wide, luminous green eyes on him. “You’re not alone anymore, Solas.”

With her eyes on him, searching his face, he wondered for the first time if she was right. 

“Thank you, da’len,” he said. He looked away and changed the subject. “I am surprised to find you here. I thought you would be celebrating.” 

She shook her head. “I know I should be happy; we stopped Alexius _and_ secured an alliance with the mages.”

“No small feat.”

A flash of a smile at that, but it was short-lived. She shook her head. “I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

He frowned. “The future Alexius showed you.”

She nodded, her eyes staring out across the lake. “I know you think it was a gift, insight into our enemy’s plans. And maybe it was.” She turned to face him, the bite of the cold wind bringing a tinge of pink to her cheeks. “But it was not a gift watching you die for me.”

Solas went still, rooted to the stone beneath his legs. The rumors had not mentioned the details of his existence in the future, only that he was there and had helped the Herald undo that world. His mind spun, trying to imagine a future so terrible that he would sacrifice himself without restoring Elvhenan.

Her ears went rosy with embarrassment at his prolonged silence. She looked away and added, “Cassandra, Bull, and Leliana too.”

He set those wonderings aside for later, and refocused on Riallan. Her hands trembled as she picked at her nails and her chin wobbled against emotion she refused to show. 

“I am sorry, lethallin,” he said. “Do you wish to speak of it?”

She shook her head quickly. “No.” She sighed. “I wish I could forget it, at least long enough to sleep.” She tried to give him a small smile, but it looked pained. 

“We can be most cruel to ourselves in our dreams, can we not?”

Riallan smiled then. “Says the Dreamer.”

“I have seen more dreams than most, da’len.” He paused, certain that he should not offer his assistance in this matter. And yet, his heart ached to think of her alone and tortured in her sleep.

“I could help keep the nightmares at bay,” he said. He couldn’t look at her then, for fear she would see how conflicted he was at the idea. 

Riallan let out a long, shuddering sigh. “That would be— I mean, if you’re sure, I—“ She stopped, composing herself. Another deep breath. “I would really appreciate that, Solas.” 

His name on her lips made him smile. “Then I am happy to be of service.” He looked up to find her smiling at him. His stomach flipped and warmth blossomed through his chest at the sight, and dread filled his heart. 

He could not afford to get attached. But surely, ensuring the Herald was rested would only help their cause. She must be ready to face Corypheus, or else he would never get his orb back. Without the orb his plans to restore Elvhenan would take twice as long. 

So, he would help Riallan find peace in her dreams. And he would steel his heart against her smiles.

Beside him, she sighed and looked out over the lake. The worry lines had melted away, pure exhaustion taking their place. Solas knew all too well the burdens she carried, the solitude of leadership. He would grant her what comforts he could.

For now.


	4. Dreamer

Solas balanced the tray in one hand and knocked on the door with the other. It was late and the majority of Haven had resigned to their beds. The Breach was a disconcerting glow above them, turning the snow to a shimmering green sea. Beyond the chatter and cheer of the tavern, only Varric stood vigil at his fire; they’d nodded to one another as Solas passed him but said nothing.

The door opened and Riallan gestured him into the small house that had been reserved for her use. Solas had not been inside the building since she recovered from stabilizing the Breach after the Conclave. With one look around the room it was clear to him that she hardly used it. Aside from the slight rumple of the bed covers, the house was pristine.

“You brought tea?” She asked, taking the tray from him to set it on the small table beside the bed. She wore tan leggings with a loose white tunic and her bare feet were silent on the floorboards. Solas realized he’d never seen her so casual, so vulnerable, and instantly felt that he’d made a mistake. This was too invasive, too intimate, seeing her in her quarters in the middle of the night.

But he couldn’t rescind his offer without complicating matters even more.

He clasped his hands behind his back. “In case you needed help falling asleep,” he said.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said as she poured a cup. She raised a dark brow and held the cup out to him.

He declined her offer with a short shake of his head. “Thank you, but I can slip into the Fade without it.” He sank onto the rug in the center of the room to sit cross-legged facing her.

Riallan sat on the edge of the bed, the cup of steaming tea cradled in her hands. “What do I do now?”

He smiled at her nervousness. “Enjoy the tea and try to relax. Perform any of your usual bedtime rituals if you haven’t already, and once you fall asleep I will find you in the Fade.”

“How?” Her face was full of sheepish wonder, as if the need for an answer had outdone her bashfulness.

He considered the question. “Every mage has a unique resonance to their power.” He tilted his head. “Have you noticed that?” In Arlathan the air had thrummed with power, clashing and mingling like voices in a market square. But, not every mage in this time had a strong enough connection to the Fade to recognize the subtleties of those resonances.

She nodded. “It’s like a signature, but I can only feel it on strong castings.”

“Exactly,” he said. “As a Dreamer, when I walk the Fade I can sense those signatures. It is a simple enough matter to find yours.”

She looked down at her tea. “What does my magic feel like?”

“Like a summer storm.” The words were automatic. Of all their mage companions, Riallan’s power was the most distinct to him. Whether that was a side effect of her carrying the anchor, he was uncertain, but he knew her magic well. “Like thunderclouds and the threat of rain. In the Fade it will be even stronger.”

She didn’t look up from her cup, but he noticed her blush all the same. “Yours is like snow,” she said. “I can’t explain it, but that snow smell? The clean, nothingness of it? That’s what I feel every time you cast a barrier over me.”

He stared for a moment, surprised. He had not expected her to sense his power. Perhaps the anchor linked them in some way after all? She took a sip of her tea as he considered the possibilities, then shook himself from his wonderings.

“You should sleep, lethallin.”

She nodded, set the cup on the tray, and slipped under the covers. “Will I know when you’ve found me?”

He stretched out on the rug, preparing to sink into the comforts of the Fade. “Not if I’m careful,” He said. Solas gestured with one hand, dousing the candles and sinking the room into darkness.

“Oh,” she said. The word fell flat and heavy with disappointment.

“On nydha, Riallan.” Her name felt foreign on his lips. He was used to referring to her as the Herald, Lavellan, or even da’len. But there, in her room, sheltered in the dark, it felt wrong to call her anything else.

“On nydha, Solas,” she whispered, the Fade already coming to claim her.

He listened to her breathe, the darkness making the room feel even smaller, until he felt certain she was asleep. Journeying into the Fade was second nature to him. Before the Conclave he’d spent more time in the Beyond than he had in the real world. It was easier for him there. Easier to pretend that Arlathan had flourished after he’d sealed the Evanuris away. Easier to relive memories he’d give anything to experience again.

He opened his eyes and took in the scene of the little house that now belonged to the Inquisition’s Herald. A small family of humans knelt in a circle, praying. It sounded familiar enough that he recognized them as Andrastians, but their dark clothing and the dissonant quality of their voices rippling through the Fade left him feeling unsettled. Not all memories were worth remembering.

He moved on from the scene, searching for the electric hum of Riallan’s magic. With their physical proximity, he wouldn’t have to search for long. He felt a jolt of power and smelled the acrid tang of ozone, and then he heard her scream.

The nightmare had come quickly.

He stepped through the Fade and into her dream, then froze. Solas recognized the grey stone walls of Redcliffe castle, but this was not how he remembered them. Red Lyrium grew wild throughout the hall, sprouting like weeds from between cracks in the stone. Above him, through the crumbled ceiling, he saw the Breach, throbbing and swirling in unbridled fury.

He vaguely recognized sounds of battle, and turned away from the Breach to see Riallan hurtling spell after spell at lyrium-crazed Templars. She was drenched in sweat, her eyes wide in panic, but her mouth was set in a vicious, determined snarl.

This was what she’d faced? This was the dark future that haunted her every step since Redcliffe?

“Solas!”

He spun, for a moment convinced that she’d somehow spotted him, but then he saw what made her cry out his name. The door at the end of the hall had burst open, permitting a horde of darkspawn into the chamber. At their feet was his limp body, covered in red lyrium, corrupted red eyes staring out from his face.

“Enough,” he snarled, and bent the Fade to his will. His intent would be enough to guide the dream into something of her creation. Something familiar and soothing, that would be as a balm to her damaged psyche.

He watched as the cursed Redcliffe castle melted away to be replaced by a meadow ringed by tall spruce trees. It was warm and a little humid, but the breeze felt nice against his skin. Riallan kneeled beside a creek, washing her hands.

She was younger in this dream, thinner, with long hair braided down her back.

“Riallan!” A voice, weathered but strong, called across the meadow. She turned to look at the speaker, and Solas saw that she didn’t yet have her vallaslin. She was so young, all willowy limbs, still awkward as a fawn. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed this glimpse of her life before the Conclave.

“Coming, maela!” She wiped her hands on her pants and headed toward the center of the meadow. As she did the camp billowed into sight, as if through a fog. A dozen aravels sprawled across the glen, Dalish appearing to stand at their sides or walk through the camp. She smiled and waved at almost all of them, but reserved her biggest grin for the old woman who sat at a small fire at the center of the camp.

“There you are, ma’dirthalen.” She waved for Riallan to sit. “Come, sit. We have much to discuss.” By her robes and the ornate staff cradled against her shoulder, he could guess that this was the Keeper of the Lavellan clan. If memory served, Riallan said her name was Deshanna.

What she hadn’t mentioned was that the Keeper was her grandmother. But he couldn’t deny the resemblance. They shared wide green eyes that saw everything and delicate, arrow-straight noses. Deshanna’s lips were thinner and her jaw rounder, the lines of her face heightened by the large, branching arcs of Mythal’s vallaslin.

“What are we learning today, hahren?” Riallan eagerly sat at her grandmother’s feet.

“We are learning who you are, and who you want to be.” She lit a long, hand-carved pipe with a snap of her fingers and took long puffs.

Riallan didn’t understand, at least not at first. Then her brow lifted and her eyes shone with excitement. “I’m picking my vallaslin?”

Deshanna nodded. “You must choose carefully, da’len. This is not just adornment, but a commitment. A promise to the Creators that you would walk the world in their honor.”

Solas’ nose crinkled at that. How wrong these people were, how lost. They bore these markings in honor of false gods, received them as a testament to their determination and devotion. When all the Evanuris would see was property. It made his stomach churn.

But the young Riallan’s face bore nothing but pride and hope as she set to considering which of her Creators she would choose. He, of course, already knew the answer. Mere feet away from him in the physical world, Riallan slept, her face marked for Dirthamen.

He had seen enough, more than he should have. It was improper of him to linger in her private thoughts now that he’d banished the nightmares. He took one last look at her face, free of any ink, and wished he could convince her not to go through with the ritual.

But this was just a dream, pieces of memory stitched together to give her a reprieve from the horrors of her waking life. He would leave her to it.

He could have awoken, left the house and Riallan to her dreams and returned to his own little hut. But, he was already asleep, and there were wonders yet to discover in Haven’s memories. So he spent the hours in the Fade, with his senses tuned to the storm magic, just in case the nightmares returned.

“Solas?” Her voice was soft, as if she hoped not to wake him, but felt she ought to try.

He opened his eyes to see her standing over him, her face illuminated by a single candle. The Fade still clung to him, and before he could stop himself the question tumbled out. “Why did you choose Dirthamen?”

She blinked, then frowned as she took a step back from him. “You saw my dream.”

He sat up. “I did not intend to,” he said. “And I did not linger.” When she didn’t speak he feared he’d crossed some boundary. “Ir abelas, lethallin.”

She shook her head. “Don’t. I asked for your help and it worked. If I had any nightmares, I don’t remember them.”

He smiled and stood. “I am glad I could help.” He looked out the window and saw the barest tinge of pale blue on the horizon. “I should go,” he said. “Before others awake and begin to talk.”

She scoffed. “Let them talk,” she said. “I’m not some Chantry Sister to be locked away in a tower.” Riallan stopped, realized what she said, and blushed.

Solas chuckled. “I did not think you were, but you should take care with your reputation. Think of how the world would react if it thought the Herald of Andraste had taken an elven apostate to her bed.”

She cleared her throat, but didn’t look at him. “I see your point.” She sighed, crossing her arms and leaning against the footboard of her bed. “But even if they did think that, I wouldn’t mind.”

He froze, convinced he must have misheard her. Or that she misspoke, not realizing what she said. He stared at her, and the longer his gaze lingered, the brighter her face turned red.

She knew exactly what she’d said.

Despite himself, he felt the tips of his ears burn. He needed to change the subject, now. “You never answered my question. About your vallaslin.”

When she finally looked up at him, there was a tiny smirk on her lips. She saw his change in subject for what it was: evasion. “I didn’t, did I?” She walked him to the door, and the frigid air was a relief. It cleared his mind and banished the heat that had climbed to his cheeks.

“Perhaps the answer awaits you in the Fade,” she said as he stepped out into the cold.

He looked at her once more, taking in the pink of her cheeks and the mischievous glint in her eyes. He hummed, pretending to muse over her words. “Perhaps,” he said and turned to let the Herald to watch him leave.


	5. The Meadow

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Riallan said. She sat on the bank of the creek that cut through the meadow of her clan’s favorite camping spot. They always spent summer outside Wycome, enjoying the cool mountain breezes that cut through the valley’s humidity.

Solas sat beside her, legs crossed beneath him. “I had intended not to,” he said.

She tilted her head and rested back against her hands. “What made you change your mind?”

He pursed his lips as he thought of how best to answer her. “You were… difficult to ignore.”

Riallan smiled at that. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said, then frowned.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. It’s just… I don’t feel like myself right now.” She shook her head.

“Ah.”

“Does that make sense?” If this conversation were happening in the real world she’d be blushing and stammering, but sitting on the bank of a creek she hadn’t seen in almost a year Riallan felt no self doubt, no needling anxiety pouring over her every action.

“I should have warned you,” Solas said.

“Warned me?”

“The Fade blurs the line between feeling and thought. They often bleed together and it can be difficult to tell one's emotions from reality. It is reactive, in this case to your will, since I am visiting your dream.” He paused and tilted his head to consider her. “Why? How are you feeling?”

“Calm,” she said at once. “Confident. In control.”

He laughed, soft and true. She understood then what he meant about the Fade. She had never seen Solas so free with his expressions or laughter as he was sitting with her beside the creek just then.

He picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water. She watched it go, fascinated with the detail of her dream. “It’s so real,” she murmured.

“Perhaps because it is,” he said. “In its own way.”

“We’ll both remember this when we wake up?”

He nodded. “While it may have started as a normal dream, I am sustaining it so that we might talk. We are as lucid as if we were awake.”

Riallan looked around, taking in the details of the trees that surrounded the meadow, the warmth of the mud under her palms where the sun had shone down upon it. She could smell rabbit cooking somewhere behind them, where her clan would have camped if this were really summer in the Free Marches.

“This is amazing, Solas.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you, lethallin, but I cannot take credit for the setting. This is all of your creation.” He looked around and smiled. “It seems you have quite the attention to detail.”

“I guess I just didn’t want to forget it,” she said.

He watched her for a moment, then said, “you miss them.”

She sighed. “Very much.”

“Why did you leave?”

She drew a line in the bank with her index finger. “Maela said it would be good for me. That I should see the world before my whole world became the clan.”

“You are the First, yes?”

She looked up at him and, as usual, was surprised by the intensity of his gaze. In the waking world she was always shocked to find his eyes on her when she felt there were a million more interesting things he could look at. In the Fade his gaze was even more focused.

“Yes. I’ve known since I was seven that I would someday be the Keeper of Clan Lavellan.”

He frowned. “Isn’t that young? I thought only mages could be Keepers.”

“You’re right, but my power manifested the summer of my seventh year.” She glanced back toward the camp. “It was in this meadow actually, during a storm.” She shrugged. “Anyway, Deshanna wanted me to go to the Conclave. She said I was the only one she trusted with such a task, but I think she was testing me.”

“How so?”

“I think she wanted me to be sure I understood what I would be giving up if I became Keeper. That I would defend my people from the world instead of being a part of it.”

“And here you are, defending the world.” He smiled, but it was sad at the corners.

She chuckled. “She knows how important knowledge is to me.” Riallan smiled. “She called me ‘dirthalen’.” She looked down at where she dragged her finger through the mud.

“Knowledge-seeker,” he said.

“That’s why I chose Dirthamen, you know.” She looked at him and her stomach clenched at the interest in his gaze. “My vallaslin isn’t just a promise to the God of Secrets,” she said. “It’s a vow. That I’ll never stop searching for who we were. Where we came from. It’s a promise to myself.”

Solas froze beside her, but before she could comment he relaxed, leaning back into his palms to mimic her posture. Her eyes followed the long lines of his body, not for the first time appreciating the lithe physicality he exuded.

“And? Did you pass your Keeper’s test?”

She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “I don’t know. But even if I did, I won’t be going home until the Breach is closed and this Elder One is defeated.” She smirked, trying to cover the worry she felt deep in her chest. “That’s assuming I survive the whole ordeal.”

“You are surrounded by passionate, devoted, and powerful people. Your companions will not let you come to harm.”

The conviction in his voice made her look at him. The warmth of his gaze held her captive, made her want to reach out, to brush a fingertip along his jaw. Creators but she was so painfully lonely. And suddenly being in the Fade made it so much worse.

Here was this man, all long lines and subtle strength, with so much knowledge and passion for learning, and he was promising that he would protect her. That he would help her however he could. Her longing in that moment was so strong she could practically taste it on her tongue.

Riallan opened her mouth to speak, even as her mind balked at what she was about to propose, but Solas looked away from her and even in the Fade, she lost her courage.

He tilted his head, as if listening for something. “We should go,” he said.

She sat up. “What? Already?”

He smiled at her, so much broader than he ever had in their waking lives. “Time is an illusion in the Fade. We spoke the whole night through. It is just after dawn.”

She sighed. “Josephine will be knocking on my door if I don’t make an appearance soon.” She glanced at him then quickly looked away. “Can we do this again sometime? I… I like talking with you.”

He didn’t answer right away and the long moment of silence filled her with dread. She had finally done it, crossed that invisible boundary he’d put up around himself and now he would withdraw from her. She’d be more alone than ever.

Then he said, “I enjoy speaking with you too.” He was quiet, the words barely more than a murmur, but they were sweet music to her ears.

She smiled at him as she felt the dream around her melt away. “I’ll see you soon, lethallan.”

The last thing she saw as the meadow went dark around them was his smile.


	6. Fledgling

“Have I mentioned how much I hate swamps?” Varric said as he settled down beside their meager fire. Solas had to build it under a rocky outcropping to protect the flames from the constant rain.

“You have,” Cassandra sighed. “At length.”

The three of them sat on the ground, their backs to the rock wall while they tried to dry out a little. Riallan had declined to join them, instead opting to sit at the edge of the murky water, her face upturned to the rain.

“I am worried about the Herald,” Cassandra said, her voice low. “She has been troubled ever since Redcliffe.”

“For once we agree, Seeker.” Varric turned to look at him. “Chuckles, you should go talk to her.”

“Why me?” Not that he was actually opposed to the notion, but he wondered why Varric would suggest him.

Cassandra scoffed. “Well, it certainly cannot be me. I think she still does not trust me.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Imprisoning people does tend to put a damper on the relationship.”

The Seeker glared at him, but said nothing.

“And besides,” Varric continued, “You two are close.”

“You are?” Cassandra turned wide eyes on him.

Solas shifted against the stone and refused to meet her gaze. “Not any more so than she is with any of her other companions.”

“I saw you sneak into her cabin the other night.”

“I did not sneak.”

“What?” Cassandra sat up. “You visited the Herald’s private quarters?”

“She’s been…” he paused, unsure how to explain his presence in her room without divulging too much about her nightmares, or his abilities. “She’s had difficulty sleeping,” he said. “I offered my assistance.”

Cassandra’s mouth fell open and Varric smirked. “I’m sure you did,” he said.

Solas looked between them, then scowled. “Fenedhis! Not like that. Don’t be so childish.”

Varric laughed and Cassandra actually looked disappointed. “If not… like that,” she said, “then how exactly are you helping the Herald?”

Solas glanced at Riallan’s back, but he doubted she could hear them over the rain. He lowered his voice to be safe. “The future she saw in Redcliffe was harrowing. Her sleep has been troubled. With my familiarity with the Fade I have been protecting her dreams so that she might rest.” He glared at Varric. “That is all.”

The dwarf gave him a knowing smile. “And you need to be in her bedroom to do that?”

“At first, yes,” he said. “Proximity helps establish the connection.”

“Connection,” Varric echoed.

Cassandra blushed. “I think it is nice. The Herald should have some comfort in all of this.”

“You are reading too much into this,” Solas snapped.

“I don’t know, Chuckles. First you spend the night in Her Worship’s room and now you’re telling us you visit her dreams?” He wagged his eyebrows. “Sounds pretty romantic, if you ask me.”

Cassandra let out a dreamy sigh. It was the final straw.

“Enough,” he said, standing abruptly. “I will speak with her if it will get you to drop this subject.”

Varric grinned. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“No,” he lied. “But I am obviously the only one thinking of the Herald.” He glared at them. “Have you considered what such a rumor could do to her fledgling reputation? Your whispers that she shares her bed with an elven apostate, no matter how well intentioned, could clip the Inquisition’s wings long before it even gets off the ground.”

They stared at him for a moment and this time when Cassandra blushed it was with shame. “I am sorry, Solas. You are right. I will not speak of it again.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Varric said. “Your secret’s safe with me, Chuckles. Nice metaphor, by the way. Fledgling, wings,” he said, as if making a mental note.

Solas was struck with the sudden terror that Varric might be writing another book, that he might have inadvertently made himself a key character in the dwarf’s eyes. The last thing he needed was to become some figure in Thedosian literature.

He sighed as he stepped away from the fire. He didn’t have the patience to argue the point further. Besides, he was worried about Riallan too. He settled down beside her, careful to keep a healthy distance between them. He was all too aware of the eyes that watched them.

She smiled, but didn’t look at him. “You worry too much about my ‘fledgling reputation.’”

He groaned. “I am sorry, lethallan. They are worried about you. They cannot help but notice that you have not been yourself since Redcliffe.”

She exhaled and rolled her neck and shoulders. “I know. I’m trying to be better,” she said. “And you’ve really helped me.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He wiped at his face, a futile effort against the rain.

“It’s not just Redcliffe, you know,” she said after a moment.

“I had begun to suspect as much.” From what he’d seen of her nightmares, the future she’d seen in Redcliffe castle was haunting, but she was stitched from stronger cloth than that. Her experiences after the Conclave proved as much. She was resilient, adaptable, and driven. He would be surprised if her turmoil was solely the product of what Alexius had shown her. “Will you tell me what troubles you?”

She looked at him, her eyes clear but the corners of her mouth were heavy with sadness. “Would you believe it if I said I was homesick?” She shook her head, as if the concept were ridiculous. “I’ve never been away from my clan for so long. I’ve never spent so much time surrounded by shems.”

He was surprised to hear her use the term. To him all people of Thedas were now shemlen, but he understood that when the Dalish used it, it was commonly a slur. Perhaps it was a response to the multitudes the humans had for elves.

“I tried talking with Sera,” she continued. “But, as soon as I mentioned elves she shut down on me.”

Solas realized then how isolated she must feel in the Inquisition. One of only a few elves and the only Dalish, bearing the label of a religion in which she didn’t believe, in order to save a world that largely didn’t want her. She could only write home, and correspondence could take weeks. No wonder she sought him out as often as she did. He might not be Dalish, she might think him a simple city elf who’d lived his life on the fringes, but he was knowledgeable. He spoke her language and called her kin.

“I’ve never felt so alone,” she said, so softly that the rain nearly swallowed the words.

His heart clenched in his chest at how despondent she sounded. It was painfully similar to the loneliness he’d carried this past year. Against his best judgment, Solas reached out to place his hand on hers. “You are not alone, Riallan.” She had gifted those words to him only days ago and now he was happy to return them.

She looked at him, and this time there were tears in her eyes. He let her pretend it was only the rain on her face. He knew he should add to his statement, that he should tell her how much her companions cared and that they were there for her if she would only let them in. But, he knew she already understood that. This wasn’t about the others.

And, when he searched his own feelings, he found that he didn’t want to talk about them. He didn’t want to qualify his assurances to her.

So, instead, they sat in silence and stared out over the gloom of the Fallow Mires. The only warmth to be found was where her fingers laced through his.


	7. A Different Kind of Truth

After they rescued their soldiers from the Avvar, Riallan’s mood improved considerably. Solas told himself it was due to their success in the Fallow Mire and had little to do with the solace he’d provided her. It had been a small moment of comfort, a weakness on his part that he would not repeat.

And yet, despite her smiles and her laughter, Solas still found himself visiting her dreams each night. They spoke about anything and everything, and it turned out that Riallan’s curiosity was not limited to his knowledge of the Elvhen.

“Tell me about you,” she said. She sprawled on her back on the gently sloping hill where they’d closed a rift earlier that day. The waterfall was a constant rush in the background and the sun was warm as it shone down on them. Yet again her attention to detail in recreating real places in the Fade was impressive.

His hands were behind his head where lay beside her. He looked at her, a brow raised. “What would you want to know?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You know so much about me now. Where I grew up, what my grandmother looks like, what my nightmares look like… Where are you from?”

He smiled but it was hesitant. “I was born in a village to the north,” he said.

“North of…” She prodded.

He chuckled. “North of here.”

She frowned at him. “You’re not Fereldan.”

“How can you be sure?” He kept his expression blank, but he couldn’t keep the humor from his voice.

“Wrong accent.” She chewed her lip. “And, as far as I can tell, no obsession with dogs.”

He laughed at that. “You’re right. I’m not Fereldan.”

“Definitely not Orlesian.” She winked at him.

He crinkled his nose in distaste. “Definitely not.”

“I’d think you were a Marcher…”

“Except?” He tilted his head at her.

She grinned. “Too polite. No proper Marcher has the patience for all that etiquette.”

“Aren’t you from the Free Marches?”

“I’m Dalish,” she said, as if that explained everything. She seemed to sense that he wouldn’t give her a more detailed answer than that and resigned herself to another line of questioning. “When’s your birthday?”

“Harvestmere,” he said after a moment. He’d had to convert the Elvhen calendar to figure it out.

She sat up, resting on one elbow to look at him. “That’s it? That’s all you’ll give me? Harvestmere?”

“I don’t know your birthday,” he countered.

“You never asked!”

“Fine,” he said. “When is your birthday?”

She grinned and lay back down. “The twenty-third of Cloudreach, 9:15 Dragon.”

He blinked, checking his mental math. “Your birthday is next week?”

“Yes, but please don’t tell anyone.”

“Why not?”

She sighed. “Josephine will make a big deal out of it, there’ll be a party and the last thing I want is a party.”

“What do you want?” He asked before he could stop himself.

She looked at him, blushed, and looked away. “A quiet evening, where I have no responsibilities.”

Solas smiled. “And what would you do with such an evening?”

“Hmm…” she tapped her toe, her knee bouncing as she considered it. “I’d take a bath. One with fancy soaps from Orlais,” she said. “And read. Maybe even at the same time!” She grinned at him, her eyes unnaturally bright in the Fade. “Ooh! And have a bottle of wine all to myself.”

“Truly, a luxurious celebration,” he said.

She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “How would you celebrate your birthday?”

He frowned as he thought about it. He hadn’t celebrated his birthday in a millenia. Entire years would go by without his noticing; he hardly kept track of the date back in Arlathan. “It would have to start with the bottle of wine,” he said. “And of course, there would be music and dancing.”

She cocked her head at him. “I didn’t think you’d be one for parties,” she said.

“I’m not, anymore,” he said. “But in my youth I was quite the reveler.”

“I think I would like to see that,” she said, a shy smile on her lips.

He knew what she was asking. She knew that he could take control of her dream, twist and turn it, mold it to his will to show her a glimpse of who he had once been. But he could not indulge that particular fantasy. There were no memories he could share that wouldn’t expose who he truly was. And even if there were, he doubted he would want her to see them.

So he gave her a different kind of truth.

“You would be mistaken,” he said. “I am not proud of the man I used to be.” He hadn’t meant to let the weight of his guilt color the words, but even he could forget the strength of the Fade sometimes. And just like that their easygoing banter shattered, leaving behind an uncomfortable, cloying silence.

Clouds, heavy with rain, appeared in the sky overhead and a crisp wind rolled over them. The tone of their conversation had changed, and with it Riallan’s emotions. So the Fade changed as well, to better reflect her feelings. What a traitorous place the Beyond could be for those not strong enough to tame it.

“Solas,” she said after the silence had spread out over them like a blanket of snow.

“Hmm?”

“Can I ask you one more question?” He could tell by her voice, the sudden timidity in it, that he wasn’t going to like it.

“Of course, lethallan,” he said anyway.

She paused, as if working up the courage to ask whatever was on her mind. “Do you have any family?”

It was a gut punch, somehow so unexpected to him that he had never once considered she might wonder such a thing. But of course she did. She was desperately missing her clan and getting to know him, it was only natural to wonder what his attachments were.

He thought of the Evanuris, those he had called kin for thousands of years, only to betray them, and be betrayed in turn. He thought of Felassan, who he’d treated with such cold calculus. And he thought of the world he’d left behind to fall to ruin in his absence.

He stared up into the dark clouds and watched the first drops of rain fall. “Not anymore.”


	8. Thoughtful

Riallan stood at the war table with her advisors and mulled over what her next steps should be. The Hinterlands were rift-free now, and she’d rescued their soldiers from the Avvar. She knew that she could only delay sealing the Breach for so much longer, but she was adamant that the mages get settled and rest before she called upon them. She could return to the Storm Coast, but she’d only just felt like she’d dried out after the Mires. She wasn’t sure she could handle another week of rain.

“Herald,” Leliana said.

“Hmm?” Riallan looked up to see the ghost of a smile on the Nightingale’s lips.

“It is getting late,” she said. “Perhaps we could continue this in the morning?”

She looked around the table, at the knowing look between Jospehine and Leliana, at the distinctly uncomfortable look on Cullen’s face, and Cassandra’s barely concealed excitement and knew that they were up to something.

It couldn’t be later than five, and they’d worked well past that before, but she didn’t argue. “If you think that’s best,” she said.

Josephine shuffled her papers into a tidy pile. “I know I could use the time. We have several dignitaries from Orlais requesting a tour of our operations.”

“How exciting,” Cullen said, a wry smile on his lips.

“Riveting,” the ambassador said. “If you have need of me, I will be in my office.” She left the room and thus released them from the spell of the War Council.

Cassandra followed Riallan out of the Chantry. “What will you do with your evening?” She asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe I’ll have dinner in the tavern. It’s been awhile since I’ve irritated Sera.”

The Seeker snorted. “It does not take much.”

She smiled. “Sometimes it’s the simple things, Cassandra.”

“Maker knows, that is the truth.” They paused at the side door to the tavern. “Have a good evening, Herald.” It was an oddly formal farewell, but then, Riallan thought Cassandra was frequently oddly formal.

“You too, Seeker.” Inside the tavern was loud, the evening festivities well underway. Maryden strummed her lute and sang an upbeat song, one a few folks seemed to have already learned.

“This one’s ‘bout me!” Sera crowed when she spotted Riallan. She bounced her head along to the beat, a giant grin on her face. “Catchy, innit?”

She listened for a moment and had to admit that it was. “Not too bad.”

“Yeah. Wait a tick,” she squinted at Riallan. “What are you doin’ here?”

“In the tavern?” Riallan looked around, waiting for the punchline.

“Yeah, you’re s’posed to be--”

“-- in meetings!” Varric said, joining their conversation. “You’re always in meetings.”

“Right, yeah. Always stuck blabbing with ol’ curly hair and stabby whatsit.”

She looked between them and crossed her arms. “All right. You’re being weird.” Sera opened her mouth, but Riallan cut her off. “Weirder than usual. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Varric promised. He covered his mouth so Sera couldn’t see his lips. “Between you and me, Buttercup has had one too many.”

Sera blew a raspberry at him, but didn’t otherwise deny his claim.

“If you say so,” she said. “I’m going to order dinner. If that’s all right with you two?”

Varric raised his tankard to her and smiled. “By all means, Herald.”

If she thought her companions were acting strangely, the bartender confirmed all of her suspicions that her friends were up to something.

“Good evening, Flissa,” she said.

“Your worship,” the woman said, promptly ignoring the two other patrons that sat at the bar. Riallan felt bad, but neither man seemed to care. “Order anything you like. I’ll have it sent to your quarters straight away.”

“My quarters?” She had planned to eat with Varric and Sera. Maybe even see if Bull and Dorian wanted to join them.

“Yes, Ma’am.” She smiled, but her nervousness soured the expression. “We’ll bring it to you, just like he said to.”

“Like who said to?” What was going on in this village?

Flissa covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh. Oh no. I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”

“Considering that I have no clue what is happening, I don’t think so Flissa.” She smiled, finding the woman’s good-natured panic actually endearing.

“Oh good!” She ran her hands through her hair, then rested them on her hips. “Now what can I get for you, Herald?”

Riallan ordered a larger meal than usual, one with more red meat than she would typically eat. She had a reason to treat herself this evening, after all. She waved to Varric and Sera on her way out, both of whom lifted their glasses to her as she went.

Once outside, she looked up the stairs to where Solas usually stood, but he wasn’t there. The wind bit at her as the sun set behind the mountains, so maybe he’d just gone indoors to avoid the cold. But she didn’t think so; that would be too convenient. He was up to something.

It wasn’t until she stepped into her cabin that she remembered their conversation in the Fade all those nights ago. They’d been so busy, traipsing through the Hinterlands, solving so many problems that she’d completely forgotten they’d even talked about her birthday.

Solas clearly had not.

In the center of her room stood a large tub, steam rising off the water in gentle wafts. It smelled wonderful, like crystal grace and lavender, fresh and floral. The fragrance alone made her want to climb into the tub and let all of her troubles melt away.

But there was more than just a warm bath waiting for her.

A small table sat next to the basin. On it sat a bottle of Antivan Red accompanied by a delicately stemmed glass, a leather-bound book, and a note. As much as her fingers itched to open the book, she started with the note. His handwriting was unsurprisingly neat, the letters crisp and swooping into one another. Somehow, the words looked just how he sounded.

Riallan,

I hope you do not consider this impertinent, but I do not think it unreasonable you have an evening to yourself. Unfortunately, I could not avoid including some of the others in my plans; getting ‘fancy Orlesian soaps’ on such short notice would have been impossible without Leliana’s assistance. The wine is a gift from Lady Montilyet. She assures me that this vintage is particularly satisfying. Dorian crafted the rune heating the water, which he insisted I mention. The book is a gift from me.

I hope all is to your liking.

Annar’vegara’shenathe nuvenehn,

Solas

She stared at the note, blinking back sudden tears. Riallan knew he was thoughtful, that was readily apparent from their conversations in the Fade. But she couldn’t help thinking that this was an awfully big gesture coming from him. She set the note down and took up the book with trembling hands.

She had no idea what to expect in a gift from Solas. Maybe a text about magic, or ancient Elvhenan, if such a thing existed. But the soft, leather cover held neither of those things. It was a sketchbook, and now she recognized it as the book he’d carried with him during their travels so far. She’d noticed him drawing, of course. He’d spent many an evening with the book on his lap, a soft ball of light hovering over the pages as he sketched beside their campfire.

She had no idea what he drew, and she hadn’t wanted to pry. Now she held the answer in her hands. The first few pages were mostly landscapes, quick sketches of rocks and creeks and trees. She recognized some of the landmarks from her time in the Hinterlands. She leaned against the edge of the tub, fascinated by this glimpse into his point of view.

The next drawing was so detailed it barely qualified as a sketch. She recognized the long, bony fingers and the lines in the palm as her own, even with the gash of the mark down the center. There were notes in his tidy script around the drawing, so small she had to squint to make them out.

On the back of that page was a rough sketch of her face. Her brow was furrowed, eyes closed, the lines of her vallaslin drawn in light dashes on her forehead and cheeks. Even though the sketch was obviously a quick one, she felt breathless at how accurate the image was.

After that there were more drawings of members of the Inquisition. Cassandra and Varric, Leliana, even Cullen and Jospehine. They all made their appearance in the pages of Solas’ mind. There were depictions of the Breach and the demons that appeared through the tear in the Veil. Those pages were often shaded with aggressive strokes, the graphite smeared and angry.

As she flipped through the pages she got a sense of the timeline of the book. It started with his journey to Haven, then his time watching over her, followed by the first days of the Breach and the Inquisition. Toward the middle of the book were drawings of plants and animals, familiar landscapes from their travels so far.

And the closer to the present she came, the more she saw her own face staring back at her. Looking back over her shoulder. Sitting at the fire, a smile on her lips. Sitting with her back to him, looking out over the water of the Fallow Mire. There was even one of her barefaced with long hair, as she’d been as a child. As he’d seen her in her dream.

Riallan flipped the page and met with blank space. She blinked, turning pages to find more of his drawings, but the remainder of the book was empty.Her heart sank, the disappointment heavy in her chest. She would have looked at his drawings the whole night if she could. She cradled the book to her and wondered at receiving such a gift. She had no words for what it meant to her.

A knock at her door announced the arrival of her dinner. Flissa brought it herself, hemming and hawing and generally making a fuss. She left it on the table beside the tub and wished Riallan happy birthday, which made the elf blush.

Once she was alone, she eyed the tub. The rune would keep the water warm and she wouldn’t be gone long enough for the food to go cold. Her mind made up, she held the sketchbook tight against her chest and hurried out into the cold night air.

She hesitated at his door for just a moment; she’d never been inside his cabin before. And despite his presence in hers only a few weeks ago, she feared she was intruding. Then she thought of the tub, the wine, and the book in arms.

She knocked gently and instantly worried he wouldn’t hear her. But of course he did.

“Riallan,” he greeted, surprise on his face. He looked her up and down and realized she must be cold. “Come in.”

She stepped over the threshold and turned to him before he’d even closed the door. “Thank you,” she said. She couldn’t keep the blush from her face or the tremor from her voice, but she refused to let that stop her. “You didn’t have to do all this. The wine, the soaps, this book? Really, it was more than--”

He shook his head but a smile played at the edges of his mouth. “I hardly acted alone,” he said. “Did you read my note?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I read the note! But, Solas, this book?” She shook her head. “It’s amazing. I knew you enjoyed drawing, but I had no idea you were so talented.”

He looked away, suddenly bashful under her gaze.

“I can’t keep it,” she said.

He looked up at her sharply, hurt flashing across his face. She held the book out for him to take, but he didn’t move. He eyed the sketchbook and swallowed before reaching out to take it.“May I ask why not?”

She smiled at him. “It’s not finished,” she said. “I want to see what you’ll draw next.”

He looked at her as if she were some intricate riddle, a puzzle he couldn’t manage to solve. It was that intense, searching gaze she’d come to expect from him, and this time it sent a flash of heat through her.

The flush of embarrassment on her cheeks only made her more self-conscious. “So, yeah. I’m going to go… take a bath now?” She bit her lip at how awkward she sounded. With any luck she would drown and never have to face him again.

He laughed, but opened the door for her, his sketchbook tucked under one arm. “Happy birthday, Riallan,” he said as she walked past him.

“Thank you, Solas.”

Even as she walked back to her cabin, eager to enjoy her evening of solitude, another part of her couldn’t wait until she fell asleep. These days, the best part of her day happened long after she’d slipped into the Fade. She expected tonight would be no exception.


	9. Perseverance

Of all the forms the Fade had taken in Riallan’s dreams, this was the first time he had found her in Haven. It was surprising, especially since in the physical world, they were in the Storm Coast hunting down any signs of the Grey Wardens with Blackwall.

Solas had come to expect an almost stunning clarity and realism in her dreams, and her creation of Haven was no exception. Snow fell in gentle cascades, dusting the ground and rooftops in white powder. The sun shone, but provided little warmth, and a cold breeze rustled the evergreen trees. Even the Breach roiled in the sky above him. It was a perfect replica in every way but one.

There were no residents.

Solas walked through the empty village, searching for Riallan. She wasn’t in the Chantry or standing beside Varric’s fire. She wasn’t in her cabin, or waiting for him by his. Nor was she in the tavern, which was eerily quiet.

It wasn’t until he stepped through the gates of Haven that he knew where to look. He hiked up the tall, sloping rock that jutted out over the frozen lake just outside the village. Solas let the snow crunch underfoot, marveling at how real it felt. Riallan might not be a Dreamer, but she was a powerful mage indeed to exert such influence over the Fade.

She sat perched on the edge of the cliff, her feet dangling over the ice below her. She looked over her shoulder at his approach and smiled when she saw him. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t come tonight.”

For the first time, he hadn’t even considered whether or not he should visit her in the Fade. It was becoming a habit, a very concerning one. He smiled as he sat beside her. “I was searching for you,” he said. “You’ve recreated Haven with great clarity.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You always make it sound like these dreams were art. As if it were on purpose,” she said and shrugged. “I just dream how I remember places.”

“That your mastery is so casual only makes the achievement more impressive.”

Riallan scoffed. “Mastery? I’m not the one who can walk the Fade at will.”

He frowned. “Just because you are not somniari does not mean you do not have a powerful connection to the Fade. Do not let comparison tarnish your accomplishments.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but let the topic rest. He expected her to change the subject by asking more of her questions. She had so many that their conversations often wandered, broaching several topics before returning to the original point. But tonight she sat quietly, staring out over the frozen lake just like she had that day after Redcliffe.

“May I ask you something?” He asked once the silence had stretched on long enough.

Humor glittered in her green eyes when she looked at him. “Of course.”

“Why are you delaying the attempt to seal the Breach?”

All mirth fled from her face and she looked back over the lake. “I’m not delaying,” she said. “I just want to be sure the mages are settled and rested. They only arrived a few weeks ago.”

He tilted his head, wondering why she would lie to him now. About this. “Your advisors might believe that, lethallan. I do not.”

She pursed her lips but didn’t look at him. “I just want to be sure we’re ready.”

That didn’t make sense. “The mark is not strong enough on its own. We acquired the mages to strengthen the power of the mark to seal the Breach. The Inquisition is ready, Herald.”

His use of her title earned him a glare. “Fine. I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“Ah,” he said. It was a matter of self-doubt, then.

“What if we can’t close it?” She said. He made to answer, but she kept speaking, the words tumbling from her. “What if I fail? Or if the mark backfires and someone gets hurt?”

He noted that she didn’t seem concerned for her own well-being, but that there might be risks for those around her.

“What if I succeed?” Her voice was so small, her back hunched as if to protect from a physical blow.

“That is the goal, is it not?”

She looked at him then, her green eyes wide with fear. “And what happens when the Inquisition doesn’t need me anymore?”

Above them, the Breach expanded with a deafening crack of thunder. Riallan flinched at the sound and Solas steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “I imagine you will return to your clan,” he said.

“You really think they’ll just let me go?” She held her up her left hand, the mark shining bright in reaction to the Breach. “With this? You think Cullen will let me go? A mage with a dangerous magical mark fused to her hand?”

The sky darkened unnaturally fast, night descending on Haven as her emotions spiraled out of control. He wanted to tell her that she was letting her fears run away with her, that Cullen had never once threatened her. But, she wasn’t wrong to have these feelings. Even he had expressed his concerns about Cassandra and her Inquisition in regards to his apostacy.

These were dangerous times for mages.

But he needed to soothe her or she would succumb to these fears and begin her nightmares anew.

Another loud crack came from the Breach, and the dark sky filled with ominous green light. “Riallan.” His voice was sharp, pulling her gaze away from the hole in the sky and back to his face. “Breathe.”

She blinked at him, the panic clear in her eyes, but she nodded. She took a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth.

“You are respected in the Inquisition. The people you’ve helped revere you,” he said. “You are their Herald, chosen by Andraste--”

“I’m not, though!”

“Irrelevant,” he said. “They believe you are, and for them that is all that matters.”

Her eyes were brighter in the Fade, an impossible green that mirrored the light of the mark in her palm, and now they flashed with anger. “Belief should not outweigh the truth.”

The words hit him harder than she could ever know. What would she do if he told her the truth? About any of it. That the power in her palm was his. That the Conclave was his fault. That he was not a simple apostate, but the villain in her people’s mythology.

Would the truth outweigh her beliefs then? Would the facts of the world, of Elvhen history, overcome the generations of fear and misinterpretation?

They would never know, because he would never tell her.

“No, it should not,” he said. “But there are many things in this world that should not be so, lethallan.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The Breach settled in the sky and the stars shone brighter in the dark. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Tel’abelas, Riallan. Better to air your doubts here than let them consume your waking hours.”

When she looked at him, his heart fluttered at the vulnerability on her face. “Thank you, Solas,” she said. “I don’t think I could do this without your help.”

How painfully ironic that, if it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. She would have spied on the Conclave, then traveled back to the Free Marches to rejoin her clan. She would have continued her training and someday become Keeper of Clan Lavellan. It was her destiny, or it had been, before he gave his orb to Corypheus and dragged her into this mess. He did not deserve her gratitude.

He gave her a soft smile to cover up the shame he felt. “I believe you would have persevered, regardless.”

She blushed under his praise. “Maybe,” she said. “But it would be much more difficult.” She looked away, out over the water. “Not to mention lonely.”

They were treading dangerous territory. Their flirtations had been simple things, wordplay and wits, smirks and secret smiles. But with each visit in the Fade, each day they traveled in one another’s company, was a day he felt more and more attached. He knew it was the same for her.

And that was a path they could not walk.

“You would have made friends.” He smirked. “I doubt Varric would have left you alone for long.”

She turned to him, her eyes brimming with emotion he hadn’t expected. “Solas, I —“

She vanished and the dream crumbled around him. He blinked to awareness, the night still heavy in the tent. The rain pummeled the canvas, but he still heard Sera and Riallan speaking in hushed tones.

“Anything to report?” Riallan asked.

“Pffft. Rain, rain, and more rain,” Sera said. “How much longer we gonna scrounge around for Warden bits, huh?”

Riallan sighed, and in the dark of the tent he could just make out the movement of her hand running through her hair. “Until we find it, I imagine.”

Sera made an unpleasant sound. “Well, have fun out there gettin’ soggy,” she said as she collapsed onto her bedroll.

Riallan cast a glance back into the tent, and for a moment their eyes caught. He wasn’t sure if she could tell he was awake, but her gaze lingered long enough for him to suspect she knew. The weight of what had gone unsaid, the confession they both knew was coming, hung between them.

And then she stepped out into the constant downpour of the Storm Coast.


	10. Believer

Despite the cold, Solas couldn’t shake the memory of the archdemon’s flames. He’d felt them on his neck as he’d run away. He told himself that he had been following her directions, that Cassandra and Sera had fled too. That they would all be dead if they hadn’t obeyed the Herald’s final command.

None of it helped.

He had left her behind to face a a monster right out of the Chant of Light. A being that shouldn’t exist, imbued with a power it had no claim to. He tried to convince himself that it was the loss of the anchor that he felt most keenly, that it wasn’t the thought of never seeing her questioning glances or her smile again that nearly brought him to tears.

But, after the day he’d had, Solas didn’t have the energy to lie to himself anymore. He cared about Riallan, more than he should. More than he thought he could. This world wasn’t real after all. It was a mistake, an errant timeline he must correct. But she was different, vibrant and vital and… everything.

And now she was gone.

Sitting at the edge of the fire, Solas covered his face in his hands and tried to clear his mind. He had to think, to come up with his next steps now that the Herald was gone. Defeating Corypheus and retrieving his orb were still the priority, and without Riallan it would be exceedingly difficult.

“You and the Herald were close, no?” Mother Giselle asked. She stood beside him, staring into the flames.

He cleared his throat, but didn’t look up at her. “No,” he said. “At least, not yet.”

She hummed as if she understood his meaning all too well. “The loss of what could have been often only amplifies the grief for what was.” She sat on the log beside him, crossing her ankles and tucking her legs to one side. “She was kind. Compassionate in a way rarely seen beyond Chantry walls.”

He snorted at that. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I do not mean to belittle your faith.”

She waved his words away. “I know you are not a believer, Solas. Nor was the Herald. And yet, she embodied Andraste in ways I would never have expected.”

He looked down at his hands where they hung between his knees. “She was a marvelous spirit.”

“On that we can agree.” She sighed, rubbing her hands together before holding them closer to the fire. “We must keep her in mind in the days to come. The Inquisition will need grace and fortitude for what comes next. May the Herald be our guide.”

The Revered Mother’s words rang in his head as he watched the flames, and the more he listened to them, the more he was certain Riallan would have hated them. She never wanted to be the holy figure in the humans’ war, she fought the notion at every turn. And yet he knew she would be forever remembered as the Chosen of Andraste, the martyr of Haven.

He stood abruptly, suddenly unable to stand the heat of the fire, or the company it drew. “Thank you, Mother Giselle, for your kind words,” he said and then hurried through the snow to his tent.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find Cole sitting on his bedroll, but he’d somehow forgotten the spirit in the commotion of the evening.

“You’re hurting,” he said.

“We all are,” Solas said.

“Yes. Fire, fury, fear on blackened wings. They are afraid. Of what came before and what comes after.”

Solas sighed. He did not have the patience for the compassion spirit tonight. In the Fade emotions would make sense to Cole, but here, in a camp full of mortals fleeing for their lives, he would be overstimulated. Grasping for meaning and methods to help heal their pain. And it would be too much.

“Yours is worst,” the spirit continued. “The darkest song, bleak and black with blighted hope.” Cole blinked too-wide blue eyes at him. “You care for her. Wanted her in a way you had not let yourself want in so long.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath. “Cole, please. This is not helping.” When he opened his eyes he was alone in the tent, a whisper of an apology shivering in the air. He stared at his bedroll and for once dreaded the thought of sleeping. He had grown so used to visiting her in the Fade each night. He looked forward to her questions, to the shocking realism of her memories.

But tonight he would be alone. After the millennia in uthenera, the concept should not be so frightening. But, after a millennia in uthenera, alone and wandering, her companionship in the Fade had meant more to him than he could say.

“Enough,” he said to himself. A pitiful pep talk, but it was enough to steel his mind and climb into the bedroll and try to sleep.

Three nights he wandered the Fade alone. Three days they trudged through the storm, the weather a fitting symbol of the Inquisition’s morale. They were lost and homeless, hopeless and hollow. The advisors argued among themselves, while her companions quietly checked on one another. Varric and Cassandra spoke with him most, but he was surprised at the care both Dorian and Sera showed him as well. Apparently his burgeoning feelings for Riallan had not been so subtle as he’d thought.

He told them all the same thing. He was fine, though he mourned the loss of the Herald much as anyone else. That he feared for the future of Thedas without her. But he left it at that and denied any personal attachment or grief. The script helped him bottle away emotions he would rather not face at the moment.

On the fourth night the storm broke and the stars shone down on the Inquisition’s camp. They’d taken shelter in some ruins, so he at least had those to look forward to in the Fade that night. It would be a blessed reprieve from the lonesome quiet of his dreams these past few evenings.

He sat at the fire, using the flickering light to draw and hating that no matter what he set out to sketch, it all turned into her. Riallan facing down a dragon. Her vallaslin in abstract against the Inquisition’s heraldry. Her face when she’d spoke to him about his artwork, the shining joy in her eyes.

“Shivering, shaking, shambling,” Cole said. The spirit materialized to stand just in front of Solas, blocking the light. “Everything hurts. Breathing, walking, speaking.”

Across the fire, Cassandra scoffed.

The spirit turned to look at him. “So close. Will I find them in time?”

Solas’ hand froze on the page as his head snapped up to look at the spirit. “For whom are you speaking, Cole?”

Cole turned and pointed away from camp. From the way they’d come. “Her. There.”

He met Cassandra’s gaze across the flames, and then she shouted, “Cullen!”

Solas didn’t wait. He dropped his sketchbook and fade-stepped in the direction Cole had pointed. He arrived first, the advisors close behind him as he turned the corner around a broken pillar and —

There she was, kneeling in the snow gasping for air. A cursory glance told him she was gravely injured. Dried blood streaked her head, face, and neck, while scrapes, bruises and a few burns claimed the rest.

“It’s her,” Cullen shouted as he reached them. “It’s the Herald!” The templar bent down as if to scoop Riallan into his arms, but Solas stopped him.

“I need to assess her injuries,” he said.

“She’s freezing,” Cassandra argued.

“I only need a moment,” he promised. Already his hands traveled over her body, the glow of his magic probing and prodding, searching for where the damage was worst. The power would also soothe some of the pain, though it would only provide meager relief.

At his touch she lifted her head, and blinked at him. Her green eyes were unfocused and dazed. “Solas?” She said. Her voice sounded rough and weak. “Is this the Fade?”

He gave her the tiniest smile. “No, lethallan. You are not dreaming.”

She let out a heavy breath and winced. “I made it.”

Before he could confirm or congratulate her, Riallan passed out and fell forward into his arms.

“Well?” Cullen asked, impatience making his tone gruff.

“Her right shoulder is dislocated, the collarbone broken, she has several cracked ribs, and if the ankle isn’t broken it’s definitely a bad sprain. There’s also high probability of a concussion, dehydration, and damage from exposure.”

Cullen stared at him, his mouth moving but no words coming out. He ran a hand through his hair. “Maker’s Breath,” he finally managed.

“Can we move her or not?” Cassandra asked.

“We must.” He lifted Riallan as gently as he could, but any pain she felt was thankfully lost on her for the moment. “Cole?”

The spirit manifested, startling those gathered.

“Go to Mother Giselle and tell her to make space in the infirmary.”

He nodded, but lingered as he looked at Riallan then back to Solas. “She’s hurting,” he said. “But it’s better now. You’re helping.”

“Hurry, Cole,” he said, but the spirit’s words brought him a warmth he couldn’t deny. The others followed him, hovering and offering assistance when all he really wanted was for them to leave them be. He knew they cared, that they worried for Riallan just as he did, but they were a distraction he couldn’t afford.

Once in the makeshift infirmary tent, he told them as much. Cullen and Josephine bowed out right away, the ambassador looking a bit squeamish. Cassandra planted her feet and prepared to argue, but Leliana silenced her with a hand on her arm.

“You will tell us if you need anything?” The Nightingale said.

“Of course,” he said.

She nodded. “Come, Cassandra. Let him work.”

The Seeker gave one long look at Riallan and then acquiesced. He set to work immediately. Adan and Mother Giselle worked in tandem, following his instructions and offering advice. They had to reset the collarbone, which had begun healing out of place. It was gruesome work, and painful enough that she had cried out even in her unconsciousness.

The sound of her scream and knowing that he’d caused it, would haunt him for a long time to come.

With the collarbone set and magic poured into it to accelerate healing, Solas worked on her shoulder next. Once that was back in place, he and Mother Giselle wrapped her torso, supporting the fractured ribs.

Some small part of his mind noted that Riallan was only half dressed. She lay on the cot in just her breast band and leggings as they worked. His artist’s eye catalogued each detail of her skin, even as he lamented that he saw her under such dire circumstances. Then the moment was over and he resumed his focus to healing her.

It must have been hours later when he finally sat on the cot beside her. He was exhausted. He’d had to replenish his mana with lyrium potions twice, or was it three times? He couldn’t remember. In Arlathan, even such an intense healing session would have cost him nothing; the power was available in every breath he took. But with the veil in place, with his power a mere trickle of what it once was, he struggled now to stay upright.

“Surely, you must believe in the Maker now,” Mother Giselle said. She looked about as tired as he felt, but her face with bright with hope. “He has returned her to us.”

His head was heavy, but he managed to look up at her. “No,” he said, the words thick on his tongue. “I believe in her.”

That wasn’t what the Revered Mother wanted to hear, but neither of them could be bothered to argue the point. She bowed her head slightly to him, and then left him alone with the Herald.

His hands trembled and an erratic humming coursed through him, the after effects of the lyrium. He felt jittery and hollow, rattled and raw. He wiped a hand over his face and only then noticed they were stained with her blood.

“You look like shit, Chuckles.”

He glanced up to see Varric enter the tent. He simply nodded in reply. It was all the greeting he could muster.

“Why don’t you go clean up?” He clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll watch over her for a bit. You should get some sleep.”

Solas opened his mouth to protest but Varric spoke first.

“I’m no medical expert, but my guess is she’s going to be knocked out for quite awhile. Am I right?”

He sighed. “Yes. At least until morning, and even then we should administer a sedative. I should —“ He made to stand, but swayed on his feet.

“Woah, there, Chuckles.” Varric steadied him with a hand on his arm. “The only thing you should be doing is resting. I promise, if anything changes with the Herald, I’ll come get you.”

He wanted to argue, to demand that he stay by her side, but he had the energy for neither. He could barely keep his eyes open as he nodded and left the tent. For a moment he walked alone, weaving through the tents, and then Cole was there with Solas’ arm over his shoulder.

The spirit helped him to bed, the gesture surprisingly tender. “Scared, shimmering hope, so fragile. Exhausted, but proud. Suledin. She has endured so much.”

The elvhen was foreign on the spirit’s tongue, the word sharp where it should be round. It made Solas smile.

“The hurt is less now, for both of you.”

He wanted to say yes, to agree with Cole and smile and feel the joy of knowing Riallan would live. But those feelings would have to wait for the Fade. He was asleep before he could even give them a voice.


	11. The Gift

The first thing Riallan noticed was the gentle crackle-pop of a fire. The second was pain. All of her ached, and in some places the pain was sharp and searing. She blinked several times, unable to make sense of the dark brown sky above her until she realized it was tent canvas.

“Rest, Herald,” Mother Giselle said. “Do not move too quickly, you are still healing.”

Riallan looked at the Revered Mother and relief swept through her. “I made it.”

“Yes. It was quite miraculous.”

She glanced around but saw they were alone in the tent. “Solas, the others. Did they—“

Giselle placed a gentle hand on her arm. “They are fine. I imagine Solas still sleeps.” The woman gave Riallan a knowing look. “He pushed himself far to heal you.”

She tried to remember anything after she fell into the snow. She’d been so certain that she would die there, freeze to death only to be found in the spring thaw. She could faintly recall hands, warm on her icy skin, and voices, but that was it.

“I don’t remember any of it,” she said.

Giselle frowned. “Perhaps that is for the best. There were… harrowing moments.”

Riallan was about to ask what she meant when shouting from the fire interrupted her. Cassandra and the advisors were arguing about their next steps, and apparently agreeing on little.

“They have been at it for hours,” Giselle said. “A luxury they have, thanks to you.” She sighed. “With time to doubt, we turn to blame.”

Riallan felt another sermon coming, and she groaned as she sat up. “If they’re arguing about what we do next, I need to be there.”

“Another heated voice will not help. Not even yours. Perhaps especially yours.” She watched Riallan with reverent eyes. “Our leaders struggle because of what we survivors witnessed. We saw our defender stand… and fall. And now we have seen her return.”

“I escaped the avalanche. Barely, perhaps, but I didn’t die.” The words were a growl on her lips. She was not their savior.

“Of course,” she said, though she didn’t sound very sincere. “But the people know what they saw. Or perhaps, what they needed to see. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?”

She’d had enough. She could barely stand, but she would suffer the pain if it meant she didn’t have to suffer another lecture from the Revered Mother. “All of this happened because of fanatics and arguments about the next world,” she snarled, half with fury and half in pain. “It’s time we start believing in this one.”

She hobbled to join the others, to help plan, but the conversation had ended. The advisors stood scattered around the fire, heads down and dejected. Throughout the camp despair hung heavy, suffocating the Inquisition as surely as the blizzard had tried to swallow them. What did they do now? They had no clue where they were, no base of operations, and no hope.

That was when the singing started.

At first Riallan chalked it up to Mother Giselle foisting her beliefs on those gathered, but then Leliana joined in. Then Cullen, and within a few lines the entire camp had joined the hymn. And they were all looking at her.

She didn’t understand. How did they all know the words? Was this some human thing? Some part of the Chant she hadn’t heard? As more of the Inquisition gathered before her, some even bowed or kneeled at her feet. She wanted to pull them up, to scream at them that she was not their chosen one. But she couldn’t. These people needed hope, and for some reason, they’d decided she was the one to give it to them.

So she stood there, every eye on her as they sang, and clenched her fists against the frustration she felt.

Giselle approached her as the song ended. “It is all one world, Herald. It is our place within it that changes.”

She was still parsing out the Revered Mother’s meaning when Solas appeared beside her.

“A word?” He said, and then rushed off to the edges of the camp.

She followed him, ignoring the sharp ache in her ankle as she did, because she needed to see him. She needed to know that he was all right, even though she could see that he was whole and healthy. He walked with his usual easy, tracking gait, his footprints in the snow drawing a straight line. By the time she reached him he’d lit a torch with the pale blue of veilfire, and turned to face her.

He looked worn. His eyes were heavy and his posture, though straight, felt more forced than usual. But he gave her the tiniest smile and the rest of her worries fell away. He was here, they had both survived. It was enough.

He’d been dreading this conversation. For two days Riallan had slept the unnatural, dreamless sleep of healing. Without her to distract him, his dreams were filled with worry and doubt. He had to tell her the truth. He knew that now. Against all his better judgment he’d grown too close to her, too invested in the Inquisition’s success. Besides, she had seen the orb in Corypheus’ hand. It was only a matter of time before Riallan started asking questions about it. Better to head her off and steer that conversation himself.

The decision to tell her the truth was not the difficult part. No, the difficult part was deciding how much truth could suffice, and how to tell it in a way that didn’t encourage her to ask more questions.

She joined him at the veilfire, her eyes roving over him much as his did her. She was pale, her mouth set in a firm line against the pain he knew she must be feeling. She shifted her weight onto her left foot, easing the pressure on her injured one. But she could walk, she could move both arms, and she didn’t wince with every breath she took. It was a marked improvement.

“The humans have not raised one of our people so high for ages beyond counting,” he said. He let the awe he felt permeate his voice. “Their faith is hard won, lethallan. Worthy of pride. Save one detail.” He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the words he was about to say. “The threat Corypheus wields, the orb he carried, it is ours.”

Her brow furrowed, her lips pursed as she prepared to speak. He barreled on.

“Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.” It was easy to make it sound like conjecture, as if it was simply the logical conclusion and not a fact he was intimately familiar with. “We must find how he survived, and we must prepare for their reaction when they learn the orb was of our people.”

She considered that, absorbing the information and trusting it out of hand. Because it came from him. He hated to take advantage of her trust, but she needed this information.

“All right,” she said. “What is it and how do you know about it?”

The Fade of course, like all of the other impossible things he knew about. He wondered how much longer that particular crutch would support all his lies. But she believed him, for now, and that was good enough.

She scowled and shook her head. “Even if we defeat Corypheus, eventually they’ll find a way to blame elves.”

“I suspect you are correct,” he said. History had proven as much, had it not? “It is unfortunate, but we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies.” What a fragile line he walked, telling her his own methods so that she might rise in the Inquisition’s esteem. In the world’s.

All so that he could wield her with precision and retrieve what he had lost in the first place. What could have been a joyful conversation, full of relief at each of them surviving the impossible odds of the attack on Haven, instead left him full of self-loathing and disgust.

He saw the weight of his words land on her shoulders, saw the exhaustion on her face as she realized that her work with the Inquisition had really only just begun. He hated himself for it.

“Faith in you is shaping this moment,” he said. “But it needs room to grow.” He stepped away from her, turned back toward the camp because he couldn’t bear to witness her resignation any longer. “Scout to the north. Be their guide.”

He hesitated, but only for a moment. It was the only option, and when he really thought about it, he wanted Riallan to have it. If anyone in Thedas could deserve Terasyl’an Tel’as, it was her. Not only was it an important piece of Elvhen history lost to this world, it was important to him. It was safe, safer than they could ever make a more modern keep.

It had been his home, once. Now it would be hers too.

“There is a place that waits for a force to hold it.”

“Solas?” She asked. “What are you saying?”

He kept his back to her as he spoke. “There is a place where the Inquisition can build… grow.” And it was a submission on his part. Even if she would never know it, giving her this gift was akin to admitting all he’d denied these past weeks. He cared not just for the success of the Inquisition, not just for the fate of Thedas and the reclaiming of his orb.

His despair at her apparent death was proof enough. His fear at her injuries as he worked over her for hours left him no room for argument. He cared about her. He would see her safe for as long as he could.

Until the largest threat to her existence was the wolf that lurked too close.

“Come,” he said, and looked over his shoulder at her. “Tell the others I have seen a place in the Fade.” He considered her and frowned. “We should leave as soon as you are able.”

She sensed his shifting mood, moved to stand beside him, her hand on his arm. “Are you sure?”

Of course, she meant was he sure there was such a place. Was he sure of what he’d seen. But her question struck home all the same. Was he sure he wanted to offer this? Was he sure he could go through with it?

“Yes, Riallan,” he said. And for the first time since the destruction of Haven, Solas felt calm. He had made his choice, and for once, he was certain he wouldn’t come to regret it.


	12. Inevitable

The Inquisition marched through the Frostbacks, the pace slow but steady. Though he hated that Riallan had been injured, Solas was grateful for the excuse to remain close to her as they traveled. She was largely healed; he had focused his power on her collarbone and ribs, stitching the bones back together and easing a considerable amount of her pain. The stretched and torn ligaments of her shoulder and ankle remained however. It made hiking through the snow difficult, but though she limped as the day wore on, she never once complained.

“Lethallan,” he said once they reached a ridge a safe distance away from the others. “How is your pain?”

She shrugged and looked out over the snow-capped peaks. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He pursed his lips. “I do not doubt it. However, just because you can doesn’t mean you should.” He reached for her. “Let me—“

“No.” She pulled away from him. “Please, you’ve done enough.” She gave him a knowing look, a reminder that she often saw more than she let on. “You’re running yourself ragged trying to keep me comfortable.” She shook her head and glanced back over the crowd of the Inquisition. “Besides, they could use the reminder that I’m not some holy figure. I bleed and break, just like they do.”

Her voice matched the darkness of her words, and he knew that she battled all new demons each night in the Fade. He kept vigil, though she’d asked him not to. He’d personally seen the nightmares, the swirling dark and light of a blizzard she never escaped, the howl of wolves that hunted her through the storm, and the gravel voice of Corypheus as he mocked her, dangling from his grip.

She wasn’t wrong that he was exhausted, hardly resting, with his mana constantly on the verge of being spent. But so was she, and he couldn’t bear to see it. He would offer what comfort he could. Even if she didn’t want it.

“Sit,” he said.

She scowled at him, but complied. “Remove your boot.” He pointed at her right leg while he rummaged through his pack. They sat on an exposed arch of granite, and with the sun high and bright it almost felt warm. Almost.

“If you will not allow me to heal your ankle, we should at least wrap it.” He removed a roll of linen, one he used to wrap his own feet in lieu of shoes. Of all the practices of Arlathan, going barefoot was one he could not abandon. “The pressure will support the ligaments,” he said. “It will ease some of the pain.”

She took off her boot, then gingerly pulled down the tall woolen sock. She winced and hissed as the fabric tugged against the swollen joint. She stretched her leg out, so carefully, and sighed as his frigid fingers found the too warm flesh. Without looking at her he let a tiny stream of power into the damaged tissue. It was not enough to outright heal, but it would bring a numb relief.

“Solas,” she warned.

He ignored her and set to wrapping her foot. He went slowly, gently, each lap of the linen around her leg an opportunity to show her the things he would never be able to say.

You are incredible. You are invaluable. You are impossible.

Once he was finished he looked up to find her bright green eyes watching his every move. And for just a moment he wondered if she heard him after all.

This is inevitable, a knowing voice rang in his head. It echoed with something like defeat.

Without knowing it, he had leaned into her slightly. Riallan searched his face and licked her lips. Hope, fear, and wanting flashed across her face and he was very nearly undone.

“Everything all right?” Varric called to them. It shattered the moment and Solas exhaled, as if he’d surfaced from underwater.

With deft hands he pulled her sock back on and patted her calf to signal he was finished. “Merely taking precautions,” he said. With his pack slung over his shoulder once more, he helped Riallan to stand and they began their march anew.

They were getting close now, the keep would be in sight soon. They chatted as they walked, small, meaningless conversations. Faint echoes of the words they shared in the Fade. She spoke of winters in the Marches and how she hated the cold. Of the blankets her clan made from Halla and goats and how she missed them. Which then derailed into tales from her childhood and the animals she’d befriended.

“Adriel was always so much more graceful than me,” she said of a cousin who’d become a hunter for their clan. “So, I dared her to sneak up on Renavan.” She grinned at him. “He was the meanest buck in our herd. Only Telassen, our shepherd, could get near him without catching his antlers.”

He had a feeling this story did not end well for the cousin. And probably with punishment for Riallan.

“So, she waits until Renavan is sleeping out in the meadow. It’s dark, the moon is hidden by clouds, and I’m standing on our clan’s protector to get the best view.”

“Protector?” He asked. He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant.

“It’s a stone wolf statue, meant to ward off Fen’Harel.” She shrugged. “Every clan has one.”

“Ah,” he said. Of course they did. Otherwise the rebel god who’d freed them, and then accidentally destroyed the whole world, would come and snatch babies from their beds.

“Anyway, Addy gets real close, she hasn’t made a sound and Renavan is still asleep. And then—“ She stopped as they crested the hill and gaped at the sight before her.

Solas smiled at her reaction, his eyes watching her face, absorbing every flash of emotion. Awe, shock, appreciation, and a wash of gratitude that left tears in her eyes.

“Skyhold,” he said as he drew even with her. He still hadn’t looked at the keep. He didn’t need to. The best view, the only view he cared about, was right beside him.


	13. In Search of Peace

Skyhold was more than Riallan could have ever hoped for. There was room to grow, just as Solas said. And with all that room came a lot of frustrated evenings when she was lost in the keep’s twists and turns. The main hall was easy enough, though she kept accidentally heading into the garden instead of the war room. She blushed each time and Varric always noticed, his chuckles telling from beside the fire.

After the destruction of Haven, the arrival at Skyhold, and her advisors’ insanity that led them to call her Inquisitor, Riallan felt she didn’t have time to breathe. Everyone needed something from her. Cassandra wanted to hunt down the Seekers, Sera had Red Jenny work in Verschiel, even Varric had a friend she needed to meet. Most recently Dorian had family drama, and she was happy to help him, but by the time they returned from Redcliffe all she wanted was to get a cup of tea, a book, and sit by a fire.

Which is exactly what she did. She nearly got lost on her way back up from the kitchens, and the lure of the hidden library was strong enough to delay her trip back up the stairs, but she finally settled in at Varric’s table to relax.

The dwarf raised an eyebrow at her. “All right there, Inquisitor?”

She glared at him for using her title, but he ignored her. “Fine, Varric. Just looking to unwind a little.” She gestured to her tea and book. “May I join you?”

He waved a hand at the table. “Be my guest,” he said. “I’ll try to keep it down.” He winked at her, then returned his attention to the stack of parchment in front of him. No doubt a new book he was working on. Riallan had given up any hope that she might escape the writer’s attention long ago.

She cracked open the book she’d snagged from downstairs, a crumbling title about magic in ancient times. Riallan sipped her tea and took comfort in the smell of old pages, the crackle of the fire, and the fine scratching of Varric’s quill. She lost herself in the words and the comfort of the quiet hall, until the screech of chair legs against stone pulled her back to the present.

“I’m calling it,” Varric said, shuffling his papers in a neat pile. “Goodnight, Herald.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Goodnight, Varric.” She watched him go and knew she should also turn in for the night. It was late, the embers beginning to die out in the hearth, and around her all of Skyhold had gone quiet.

Well, almost all of Skyhold.

She read a few more pages before she noticed the soft sounds coming from the rotunda. A gentle scraping sound and the low hum of a melody she faintly recognized from the tavern. It was one of Maryden’s new songs, a haunting melody about loss and war, and responsibility resting on one person.

Or at least, that’s how Riallan had interpreted it.

She stood from the table, abandoning her book and her long cold tea, and moved to lean in the doorway of the rotunda. Solas sat with his back to her, cross-legged on the floor, a mess of paints and plaster spread out around him. Veilfire and candlelight mingled to cast the room in undulating shadows, but he didn’t seem to mind the meagre light as he worked to cover the wall in rich ambers and oranges. He hummed the tune as he painted, and when he paused to scoop more plaster onto the trowel, she noted the peaceful look on his face.

She had never seen him so open before. At least, not outside of the Fade. She found the sight enchanting, so much so that she stood there watching him for much longer than she should have. Until he caught sight of her from the corner of his eye and turned to look at her.

She laughed, and he smiled at the sound. “What?”

She pointed at her face. “You’ve got…” There was plaster and paint everywhere, and now that he faced her she could see it plainly. His clothes and hands suffered most, but a few streaks also painted his face.

He grinned and shrugged. “It comes off with enough scrubbing,” he said.

She took his easygoing manner as an invitation and moved to stand beside him. She looked over the mural so far, appreciating the artform though she knew nothing about it. “I didn’t know you could paint too,” she said after a moment.

He continued to work as he spoke, the trowel scraping against the stone wall a pleasant punctuation to his soft voice. “I have spent many years honing this craft,” he said. “It is not a skill I’ve had much opportunity to use lately, however.”

She considered him. “Hard to paint murals when we’re camping all the time.”

He hummed his agreement. When he turned to add another heap of plaster to the trowel he looked up at her. “I am surprised you are still awake,” he said.

“I was reading by the fire,” she said. “It’s been difficult to find time to relax this past week.”

He smirked, but his eyes remained on the wall. “You have been particularly busy since discovering Skyhold, Inquisitor.”

She groaned. “Please don’t remind me.”

He laughed, soft and pleasant, and in the quiet of the rotunda, it felt like it was just for her.

Riallan took in the rotunda, noticed the sketches of panels on several of the walls. “Do you do this every night?”

He shrugged. “If the Inquisition has no other need of me, yes.”

She took in his desk, covered in papers and giant tomes. She knew he’d been assigned with Dorian and some of the other mages to double check Alexius’ research. She felt better knowing her two closest companions would be keeping an eye on the magister. Then she noticed the chaise lounge against the wall.

“Solas?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look away from where he spread a new, dark line of plaster.

“Do you think I could sit in here sometimes?” Her cheeks burned with a sudden blush. Creators she could be such a nervous wreck around him. “To read or go over reports?”

His hand paused, the trowel against the wall, and his stillness scared her. Was this the line? Had she finally crossed it? Would she be intruding? Would she be infringing on his personal time even as she sought her own?

When he looked at her there was a soft smile on his lips. “I would like that.”

Her blush burned hotter on her face, climbing up to the tips of her ears. She cleared her throat. “All right. Uh. Thank you.” She took one last look at the mural. “Goodnight, Solas.”

He watched her with storm-cloud eyes that seemed to see straight through her. There was humor in them, pleasure in the tilt of his lips. “On nydha, Riallan.”

Then she fled to her quarters, forgetting her book and her cup of cold tea on the table in her haste.


	14. Denial

The Inquisitor spent many evenings in the rotunda after their first conversation. It was quiet, peaceful in a way Solas had not anticipated. If he was researching something for the Inquisition he would occasionally ask her opinion on something, or share a discovery. It was gratifying to get her feedback in real time, as opposed to waiting for her written reply to his reports.

If he didn’t have official work, he focused on his frescoes. It was during these evenings when he felt her eyes on him most keenly. Riallan seemed utterly enchanted with his artistic endeavor, her wide eyes watching his every stroke. He had to admit, he found her attentions flattering.

It was all for her, of course.

This evening she sat curled on the sofa, a cheese plate and wine beside her on a tray. She ate distractedly as she poured over a lengthy report, making notes in the margins. She wore comfortable clothing, leggings and a tunic, with a shawl to ward off Skyhold’s ever-present chill.

He found the sight of her entirely distracting. Solas stood across the room from her, working on the panel that would capture the horrors of her trials in Redcliffe. It was a challenging piece, one made more so by knowing how haunted she’d been by those particular events. He struggled to decide how best to emphasize that without pulling directly from her dreams. How to show the hardship without trivializing her personal struggle.

He paused in coating the wall in a vicious red and turned to look at her, as if merely laying eyes on her he would solve the puzzle. Solas let his gaze linger too long however, for she finally felt his gaze on her and looked up.

Riallan flushed under his attention, but smiled. “You seem stuck,” she said.

“I am undecided on how to proceed with this panel,” he said. He stepped back from the wall to get a better perspective, but it didn’t help.

She gestured to the tray of snacks. “Maybe you need a break?”

He gave her a soft smile. “Maybe,” he said. He padded toward her, taking a piece of cheese and a cracker from the tray, but declined to sit. Instead he perched on the arm of the sofa and stared at the troublesome panel.

“This one is Redcliffe?” She asked.

“It is.” He was surprised she saw that given that the piece wasn’t yet complete.

She gave him a sheepish glance. “Are you open to suggestions?”

He bit back the snort at that; she had no idea. He was fairly certain he was a man at her whim, she need only but ask. Instead, he said, “By all means.”

“It needs more black.” She bit her lip. “More shadows. It needs to be darker.”

He frowned at the work in question. “I thought to focus on red, with the lyrium and the village name…”

“There should be red,” she said. The words rushed from her, affirming, as if she were afraid to offend. “But Leliana doesn’t call it the Dark Future for nothing.” She looked down at her lap, her hands fidgeting. “You must have seen it in my dreams.”

He had never told her how much he saw when he warded her time in the Fade and, for Riallan, she had asked surprisingly few questions about it. “I have,” he said, his voice soft. He cleared his throat. “I did not want to pull directly from them without your consent.”

She gave him a curious look. “Were you going to ask?”

He kept his eyes on the wall. “Perhaps, if I continued to struggle with it.”

She snorted. “You’re a stubborn man, aren’t you?”

Solas gave her a small smile. “So I’ve been told.”

Riallan shook her head, but there was a smile on her face. “Well, you have my consent,” she said, gesturing to the rotunda in general. “Use whatever you need to make them work.”

He considered her then, searching her face, taking in the bright green of her vallaslin and how it amplified her emerald eyes.

The tips of her ears went pink under his scrutiny. “What?”

“You continue to surprise me, lethallan,” he said.

She smiled and took a sip of her wine. “I think, coming from you, that’s quite the compliment.”

The red of the wine tinged her lips, drawing his eye and his mind to them. Dangerous territory, and yet he couldn’t seem to avoid it. Time and time again their conversations led them here.

“Great praise indeed,” he said. Her blush only emboldened him, so he took the wine bottle by the neck and took a drink. “You have inspired me,” he said. He stepped away from the sofa without looking at her and returned to his work.

The silence between them, once comfortable, was now electric. He shouldn’t have indulged his desires, should not have taken the bait of her flirtations. But increasingly he realized there was little he could deny the Inquisitor.

He hadn’t merely been flirting when he said she had inspired him. He returned to the fresco with renewed vision and fell into the work almost seamlessly. Solas was completely unaware of time passing until he heard the shuffle of papers behind him. He turned to see her stand and gather up her things.

“It’s getting late,” she said. “I should turn in.”

He glanced around the rotunda, noting the darkness of the higher levels of the tower. Beyond the rotunda, in the main hall, all was quiet. How long had he been painting?

“Goodnight, Riallan.”

He expected her to simply return the sentiment and leave, but she lingered a moment.

“Will I see you tonight?”

Ah. It had been days since he’d visited her dreams. Or at least, visited like they used to. He told himself he was too busy guarding her dreams to take the time to speak to her in them. But the truth was that his feelings for her had grown so much that he feared he lacked the restraint to keep those feelings to himself in the Fade.

As much as he would like to tell her how he cared for her, he also understood he could not. He could not pursue her for a multitude of reasons, the foremost being that she didn’t know who he really was. Anything she agreed to, any consent that she would give him in this regard would be tainted by the fact that she did not know he was Fen’Harel.

He would not do that to her.

But now, looking at her in the flickering light of the rotunda, and seeing the hope in her eyes that she might see him in her dreams…

He smiled, though he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. “As soon as I’m finished here, I will find you,” he said.

Her smile lit the room, a beacon he felt hopeless to follow. He watched her leave the room and wondered what new mistake he was about to make.

There was little he could deny her, after all.


	15. Sweet Dreams

Even after a year of wandering Thedas, the Fade was still the only place where Solas truly felt like himself. Everything was easier here. While in the waking world his power was drastically diminished, his control of the Fade was still undeniable. While dreaming he felt renewed, rejuvenated, instead of the hollow shell of what he’d once been.

As he bent the Fade to his will, he wondered if Riallan noticed the differences between his waking and sleeping selves. Did she note the frequency of his smiles in her dreams? Did she lament his more guarded attitude by day?

He supposed he could always ask her, but drawing attention to the minutia of his personality was an unnecessary risk. As was pulling her to him in the Fade, as he did now.

It was the first time she’d visited a dream of his making, one where he would set the pace and tone. So he chose a familiar setting, one that would be of comfort to her.

While he waited for Riallan to heed his call, he compared his recreation of Haven to hers. To the untrained eye they would be identical, and truly his was no less detailed than hers. The difference was that, as ever, he took more artistic license with things. Wind rustled the Chantry flags, the sound snapping and echoing out over the village. The sun was bright, bringing a hopefulness to the scene that he was sure she would appreciate. Snow fell, tiny little flakes that glittered in the sunlight as if they glowed from within.

Knowing the Fade, they probably did.

It was Haven, but it was magical. Haven, but more.

Footsteps on snow alerted him to her presence. He turned to find her in her casual clothes, the ones she’d been wearing that evening in the rotunda. It was odd to see her in broad daylight in what he’d come to think of as her pajamas.

Odd, but not unpleasant.

“Why here?” She asked as she reached him.

He smiled. Just like her to start their shared dream with a question. Riallan always had more questions. “Haven is familiar,” he said. “It will always be important to you.” He led her up the steps and toward the Chantry, pleased to hear her follow him.

“We’ve talked about that already,” she said.

And they had, while they marched through the mountain passes in search of a sanctum. She grieved for the village, though her feelings on it had not always been pleasant. She was a wise woman, and understood that the town had played a vital role in her experiences, that the friendships she made were rooted there.

Perhaps that’s why he’d conjured Haven, to remind him that this was where it had all truly begun. Haven was where he had set his foot upon this path, where he had allowed himself to be called to her like a moth to flame. Perhaps all his reservations, all his restraint had been in vain. Perhaps…

Without a word or gesture he twisted the dream and they were inside the Chantry, down in its dungeons. The dark and damp had hardly been an appropriate space to conduct any sort of research, nor to care for a wounded subject. But he had worked with what he was given.

“I sat beside you while you slept, studying the anchor,” he said, staring down at the mosaic in the center of the floor. The manacles she’d wore were lying there.

She smiled at him, her eyes avoiding the reminders of her imprisonment. “I’m glad someone was watching over me,” she said.

“You were a mystery,” he said. He considered her then, meaning to ponder his words, but the Fade allowed them to tumble right out. “You still are. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing.” He smirked at the memory of the Seeker’s rage. “Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

Riallan snorted and shook her head. “Cassandra’s like that with everyone.”

That made him laugh, a sharp sound that felt painfully out of place in the dank room. “Yes,” he said, then turned away from her, suddenly desperate to see the sun again. He felt… nervous. The realization hit him hard, threw him off balance for only a moment, and then he twisted the dream once more and they were outside the Chantry doors.

“You were never going to wake up!” He said as he walked away from the church. “How could you? A mortal sent physically through the Fade…” He turned to her, surprised as ever to see the absolute focus in her eyes. When he spoke he always had her full attention. It was… gratifying. “I was frustrated. Frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach.” He shook his head. “Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra, or she in me. I was ready to flee.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, her lips quivering with humor. “The Breach threatened the whole world. Where did you plan to go?”

“Someplace far away, where I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “I never said it was a good plan.”

As it turned out, few of his plans were good ones in the end. That thought cast another barrage of guilt over him, his gut suddenly tight and his hands fidgety.

Uncomfortable once more, he turned to look at the sky, the Breach ever-present, swirling and ominous. He raised a hand out toward it, as if it where he who bore the mark and not Riallan. “I told myself, one more attempt to seal the rifts.” He kept his eyes on the Breach, still too unsettled to look at her. Even in the Fade she saw too much. If she caught onto his fluctuating emotions she would ask even more questions.

“I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then—“

The memory overpowered him, taking over the dream he’d built. They were back in that first battle, panting, scared and relieved they’d survived another demon onslaught. His hand found her wrist, again he marveled at how warm she was, how real, and then he lifted her hand to the rift. He prodded the mark, showed it his will, and she performed beautifully. The rift sealed and he released her, staring at this impossible elven woman.

He wrested control of his dream once more, the awe and wonder of that memory still washed over him. He knew she would have felt it too, but he was beyond caring if she understood. He turned to her, saw the lingering effects of the memory in the tint of her cheeks.

He took a step toward her. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he said, quoting himself. “You had sealed it with a gesture. And right then, I felt the whole world change.” It was true. His initial thoughts had been awe and hope. That she had done what he could not, that she might be able to help him retrieve his orb. And then she’d looked at him, he’d seen those bright green eyes for the very first time, hungry for knowledge. And the world seemed to solidify under his feet.

She took a step toward him, and suddenly they were very close. “Felt the whole world change?” Riallan looked at him with anticipation, with hope. He knew she cared for him, but he also knew that they shouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“A figure of speech,” he said, half-heartedly. And even as he said it his eyes wandered to her lips. They were suddenly very, very close.

She smirked. “I’m familiar with the metaphor,” she said. Another step towards him. “I’m more interested in ‘felt’.” Her voice was soft, inviting. She was close enough that he could smell crystal grace and lavender, the fragrance of the soaps he’d chosen for her birthday gift. Did she still use them? Or did his mind simply hope that she did?

Solas took another step toward her, inevitable and unavoidable. She pulled him in like a vortex. She even pulled impossible confessions from him. Words he’d swore to bury deep inside. Because this was not a path he could walk.

“You change… everything,” he said.

“Sweet talker.” She reached for him, but thought better of it.

Solas looked away, ashamed at his disappointment. He was a fool. He could not have her, even if she returned his feelings. It would be cruel, and while Solas was many things he tried his best never to be cruel.

Her hand on his cheek pulled him from darker thoughts. He looked at her, saw the determination in her eyes, and barely had a moment to understand what that meant before her lips were on his.

Solas stiffened, shocked by her warmth, at the gentle longing that radiated through her kiss. He returned it, admittedly stilted and unsure. His hands didn’t move, he didn’t lean into her, he just stood there and kissed her back. Awkwardly.

It had been a very long time.

Riallan pulled away, her cheeks and ears burning red with embarrassment. She took a step away, prepared to leave and he realized she was mortified. She thought he didn’t want this. Didn’t want her.

All sense abandoned him then. He could not let her go now, not after that.

Inevitable, his mind said.

He shook his head and reached for her, his hands found her waist and pulled her against him, their mouths reunited. He leaned into her, desperate to close any space between them. It had been so long since he’d felt the warmth of another, so long since anyone had wanted him in any meaningful way. And with Riallan he knew that any affection she had was for him. Solas. His original self. Because that was the only version of him she knew.

She kept up with him, met his hunger with her own, and when he brushed his tongue against her lips they parted without hesitation. He explored her with a fervor he’d held back for months, cataloging the sound of her hitched breaths, the flutter of her eyelids as her eyes closed, and the way her hand clung at his neck.

She was electricity under his touch, every inch of her a shock to his senses. He crowded her, desire and longing and relief combining into something ravenous. When his thigh pressed between her knees she yielded to him instantly, bending her back and dipping to rub against his leg.

She moaned, a gentle sound from deep in her throat. It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever heard. But even as it lit a fire in his blood, it also made him realize he’d let this go too far.

They could not do this.

He didn’t pull away, he let the kiss come to its natural conclusion. When they parted, he looked at her, the awe plain on his face. He had lost control, suffered a lapse in judgement, but what a gift it had been.

Riallan looked up at him, her eyes dark and shining from under heavy lids. Her lips were parted, pink and plump from their fervor. She still clung to him, his hands still firm against her low back, pressing her against him.

He shook his head and allowed for one more moment of weakness. He lowered his face to hers for one last taste of her lips. He would cherish the memory in the lonely nights to come.

At last, he pulled back, still in awe of her but resolved to do the right thing. “We shouldn’t,” he said. “It’s isn’t right. Not even here.” His voice shook, the Fade betraying him once again, displaying emotions he’d rather conceal.

She gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean, even here?”

He nearly laughed. It was the first time she had visited a dream of his making, of course she hadn’t realized they were in the Fade. His control of the dream was effortless, jumping from scene to scene just as a normal dream would.

“Where did you think we were?” He asked, barely keeping the smile from his face.

She looked around, her eyes catching on the embellished details of the Haven of his creation. When she turned her eyes back to him she saw disappointment on her face. “This isn’t real…”

He tilted his head. “That’s a matter of debate,” he said.“Probably best discussed after you…” He leaned in to her, one final indulgent touch of his hand to her low back. “Wake up.”

Solas opened his eyes to find sunlight streaming into his quarters. The dream had gone long, for all the best and worst reasons. He had to do damage control. He’d been selfish, indulgent. He could not permit this, his feelings for Riallan, to get in the way of their purpose.

Of his purpose.

A knock on his door made him jump. Had she come to find him already? Panic bubbled up in his chest. He needed time, he wasn’t prepared. If he had to talk to her now he would fail. He would be weak and he would succumb to her charms just as surely as he had in the Fade.

“Solas?” Dorian called through the door. “We are working with Alexius today, yes?”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Fenedhis. He needed to compose himself. Spending the day with Tevinter Magisters ought to get his mind off Riallan well enough.

He opened the door and stepped out into the hall. “Sorry,” he said. “I overslept.”

“Huh,” Dorian said, giving him a surprised look.

Solas scowled at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just, I could have sworn you looked… happy just then.”

Solas sighed but continued down the hall. “Must have been a pleasant dream.”


	16. A Matter of Time

Riallan lurched awake, her breathing heavy and her mind spinning. It had been a dream, just a dream. But more than that too. Just like every time he’d visited her dreams, when he sustained them and they spoke the whole night through.

How had she not recognized it? She replayed the dream, her fingers trembling against her lips. Had she…?

She had. She kissed him! She’d thought it was a dream! It wouldn’t have been the first time she dreamt of him, but it wasn’t just a dream and she’d kissed him.

And he’d kissed her back.

With his tongue…

She blushed, her hands covering her face as she tried to process what the void had happened between them last night. It was clear from his initial reaction that he hadn’t planned on seducing her in their sleep.

But, it was also clear from his feverish kisses that he wasn’t opposed to the notion. Until he was. He’d pulled away, said it wasn’t right. Not even here. Did that mean it was even more wrong when they were awake? What did that mean for them? Was she meant to forget about the kiss when it was all she’d longed for since before Redcliffe?

There was only one way to find out.

Riallan steeled herself as she prepared for her day. She dressed and mumbled her plan to herself. She practiced the conversation they would have as she combed water through her short hair, sweeping it back from her face. She argued her point, persuading an imaginary Solas that they should pursue whatever this was as she laced her boots.

But she soon found she was out of tasks and no where near prepared for this conversation. Every time she thought of facing him her cheeks burned, imagining that kiss all over again. Creators, what if she could never speak to him again?

“No,” she said to her reflection. “You can and will do this.” She took a deep breath, shook out her hands, and then hurried downstairs. She marched straight to the rotunda, eyes down, avoiding the glances and whispers of those gathered in the hall.

“Chuckles isn’t in there,” Varric called when she was halfway through the door.

She turned to look at the dwarf. He hadn’t even looked up from his manuscript. “Do you know where he is?” She asked.

He shrugged. “Saw him walking with Sparkler toward the dungeons.”

Right. They were working on the research project with Alexius. She didn’t have his schedule memorized, she barely had her schedule memorized, but she cursed the fact that she’d ever assigned him to the task.

“Is everything all right, Herald?” Varric gave her a look that was all concern on the surface, but underneath there was something smug in his gaze. He knew. She didn’t know how, but the dwarf saw right through her and _knew_.

She cleared her throat. “Everything’s fine, Varric. I just wanted to speak to Solas about something. It can wait until he’s finished.”

Whatever Varric was about to say was interrupted by Jospehine’s appearance at her side.

“Inquisitor,” she said, the word rolling off her tongue. “Come. There is much to discuss this morning.” She looped her arm through Riallan’s and pulled her back toward the war room. “Have you had breakfast? I will call for some while we work.”

Riallan sighed, but resigned herself to talk to Solas later. It wasn’t until she saw the stack of papers in Josephine’s clipboard that she realized it would be much, much later.

It was late when she was finally released from the war room. The hall was quiet, only Varric by his fire. She ignored him as she walked by, but she was pretty sure she saw a smirk on his face. Damn dwarf saw everything.

The rotunda was lit in its usual veilfire and candlelight, and Solas stood with his back to her considering one of the panels. His paints and plaster lay scattered around him, a tray of fruit and cheeses and a half empty bottle of wine on his desk. The familiar scene eased her racing pulse.

“Solas,” she greeted once she was close enough that she could speak quietly. Perhaps now Varric wouldn’t hear their entire conversation.

He reached up with his trowel and tidied a line of orange plaster that hadn’t been to his liking. “Inquisitor,” he said.

The title felt like a punch to the gut. Was he shutting her out before they’d even begun? She hadn’t planned for this, she didn’t have a rebuttal for a non-starter.

“Sleep well?” He asked. The words were innocuous, innocent and well-wishing. The smirk playing at the corner of his mouth was the only hint that he meant something more.

“I’ve never done anything like that before, on a number of levels.” She was blushing, the tell-tale heat on her face almost more embarrassing than the words that caused it.

Solas laughed, the sound surprisingly free, rebounding through the rotunda and setting her stomach to do somersaults. Creators but she loved his laugh.

“I apologize,” he said, and her heart sank. “The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered. I shouldn’t have encouraged it.”

Encouraged it? Is that what he called wedging his thigh between her legs? But she swallowed her hurt feelings and did her best to approach the conversation as an adult.

“Solas, I thought you were interested.” She looked down at her feet and tried not to fidget. Adults didn’t fidget. Adults also probably made eye contact when discussing important things, but there was only so much she could do. “If I misread you, then I apologize.”

“No!” He waved off her apology. “You have no need to apologize, I…” his voice softened, as if some last wall came tumbling down. “It has been a very long time. And things have always been easier for me in the Fade.”

A moment, a beat filled with what ifs and could have beens, their breaths heavy in the air between them.

Then his voice, quiet, subdued. Uncertain. It was such a rare tone for Solas, he always seemed so sure, so knowledgable. “I am not certain this is the best idea. It… could lead to trouble.”

Riallan’s breath caught. That wasn’t a no. Wasn’t a refusal or rejection. It was vulnerability, and coming from him that was nearly as breathtaking as the kiss had been.

“I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.” She wanted to cringe, she sounded so eager. What had this man done to her? But she couldn’t look away from him now. She took him all in, the angular lines of his cheekbones, how they were mirrored in his jawline. The steep slope of his nose where it perched above full lips she desperately wanted to know better.

Creators, she was more than willing to take a chance. She was desperate to.

Solas blushed, his words stilted, and she realized she’d flustered him. He hadn’t expected her to want to try. To want him enough to try. “I… maybe, yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are… considerations.”

Time. She could work with time. Time meant she’d still get to talk with him in the Fade, he’d still go on journeys with her into the world. Time meant nothing was ruined, yet.

She smiled, and she couldn’t keep her happiness bottled in. “Take all the time you need.”


	17. Heat

Ever since their kiss in the Fade, since his request for time, the Inquisitor had kept her distance. He hadn’t expressly asked for such, but she sensed his trepidation and respected it. Though they still met in the Fade, it was far less frequent, and always the tone of the conversation was careful and considerate. She occasionally sat in the rotunda at night, and they would share a bottle of wine and discuss some historical or research matter, something linked back to the Inquisition’s interests.

But her hands kept always to themselves, and her glances were guarded. It hurt him more than he cared to admit. So, when Riallan asked him to join her team to explore the Emerald Graves, Solas had immediately agreed. He hadn’t known what he’d agreed to.

“Why’d you bring Elfy?” Sera asked after their second day of riding. The elf refused to ride alone, so she rode behind Cassandra, who had looked none too pleased with the fact. To the Seeker’s credit, she’d suffered Sera’s proximity in silence, so far.

“You never bring Elfy when you bring me. What gives?” Sera stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Riallan where she stooped to stack firewood in the pit Cassandra had dug.

The Inquisitor didn’t look up when she said, “I brought Solas for the same reason I brought you.”

That intrigued him. He had tried reaching out to Sera early on, but she had rejected his every attempt at connection. He was curious what the Inquisitor thought they had in common here in the Graves.

“Ugh. You’re not making sense. Make. Sense!” She pointed a finger at Riallan, and though she was all bluster and huff, Solas knew she wasn’t truly angry with the Inquisitor. Sera enjoyed poking and prodding at people. She pushed boundaries so she could define them, making her all the better equipped to break them. It was a trying tactic but, he must admit, an effective one.

Riallan frowned and stood up to face Sera. “Look around you,” she said, gesturing to the forest. “Every one of these trees is an elf that died protecting our lands. Lands we were given for services rendered to the humans and their blessed Andraste.” The prophet’s name dripped from her lips with such disdain Cassandra actually flinched. “Lands they took from us because we refused to submit to their doctrine.”

Solas had not considered the parallels before. Had not considered that the Inquisitor might see the awe-inspiring beauty of the Emerald Graves and see only a harbinger of her own fate. Would the humans who held her aloft now only betray her as soon as it was convenient? Would they denounce her if she continued to rebuff their claims of divinity? Would her life, her legacy, be carried on in the branches of a nameless tree, her deeds nothing more than the whisper of a breeze in its leaves?

Sera hadn’t expected the vitriol and she took a step back in the face of it. “What of it? Elves die everyday, yeah?”

“Yes,” Riallan said. “They still do, at the hands of humans who believe they’re better than us in every conceivable way.” She took a deep breath, fighting for composure. “I brought you here, Sera, because this is our history.” She looked at him, her gaze pleading. “All of ours. I know you both have your problems with the Dalish, but please.” She looked out at the trees, her eyes lingering on several before she looked down at her feet. “Surely, you must understand what we sacrificed. What was stolen.” She swallowed against the emotion, her voice stronger when she said, “what we must fight for.”

He considered the forest, his lips pursed. He knew of the Exalted March against the Dales, of course, but he had been in uthenera at the time. He had not witnessed the carnage, only heard the echoes in the Fade. And by then, the elves were already husks of what his people had been.

But, looking at the trees and seeing the sheer magnitude of the loss, even Solas had to admit that Riallan was right. As removed as he might be from the modern elves of Thedas, this massive graveyard was his history. A brutal legacy he could never have foreseen.

He met her eyes, green and beseeching, and had to look away. He swallowed against the thick wave of shame that rolled over him. “Ir abelas, lethallan.” He shook his head, but still could not meet her gaze. “I did not comprehend the magnitude of the loss.”

Not entirely true; the loss was much, much worse than she knew.

The brush of her hand on his shoulder surprised him and when he looked up her eyes had softened. She was not upset with him for his ignorance, yet another marvel of her enduring spirit.

“Ma melava halani, lethallan.”

She smiled, a tragic, beautiful, quivering thing. “Ara melava son’ganem, Solas.”

She was so quick with her forgiveness, as if it cost her nothing at all. It taught him to hope for the impossible, yet again. But he knew that, one day, he would use up all her absolution and be faced with only the resentment that could remain.

“Right, so,” Sera said, breaking the moment between them. “What he said, then.” She paused, took a deep breath, and grimaced. “Mommy lava holly, or whatever.”

Cassandra snorted, the first sound she’d made since Riallan’s speech. “I do not speak Elven, but I am certain that was not what Solas said.”

Riallan smiled at that and he chuckled. “Not the worst start,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the archer. “I could—“

“Nuh-uh,” Sera said. “I said the thing and that’s all I’m gonna say. Enough elf shite for one day, yeah?” The bluster was back, but it was half-hearted. Riallan’s plea hadn’t fallen on deaf ears, just stubborn ones. It seemed that was enough for the Inquisitor.

“I make no promises,” she teased, then lit the fire with a casual flick of her wrist. Her sly grin said she knew the reaction she’d get from that.

“Dunno what’s worse,” Sera said. “The elfy bits or the magey bits.”

She gave Sera a wicked smile and then glanced at him. “Oh, definitely the magey bits.”

Solas spent the rest of his evening analyzing that glance and convincing himself the heat he felt had merely been a trick of the fire. By the time he fell asleep he almost believed it.


	18. Little Mercies

“Wild. Running, jumping, white and shining.” Cole blinked watery eyes at the Inquisitor. “Free.”

She smiled softly and nodded, but did not speak. She had eyes only for the halla that bounded away from them across the river. Solas had thought little of the creatures, but when he looked back at Riallan he saw the depth of her wonder at the sight. Cole’s voice echoed her reverence, and knowing the thoughts were hers made his heart clench.

“They are so delicate,” Cassandra said. “I expected them to be… hardier.” She said it without disdain, a simple observation.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Riallan said without looking away from the animals.

The Seeker considered her, taking in her willowy form in the intricately sewn Keeper’s robes and smiled. “This is true.”

That made him smile. That the Seeker compared Riallan to halla was at once endearing and laughable. The Inquisitor was something altogether more fierce than the elegant deer, even if she shared their grace.

Not that he would say as much in current company.

“Elegant, yes,” Cole said. “Long legs for bounding through trees. But sturdy too. Powerful, precious, poised.”

Riallan laughed at that, the sound bright and echoing off the stones of the riverbank. “Yes, Cole they are that too.”

Solas was glad he stood at the front of their party for once, for he could not contain his blush at the spirit’s words. They had been his thoughts, and they were decidedly not about the halla. He continued on the path, eager to move on and give Cole something else to think on, so he was the first to notice the red sails across the water.

His stomach dropped even as he smiled. While he had little affection for the Dalish, Riallan would be overjoyed to see a clan here. “Inquisitor,” he called and pointed ahead of him.

Sure enough, once her gaze found the aravels her whole face lit up. It was the biggest grin he had ever seen on her face. The purest, most hopeful expression. It made his chest ache, knowing that she so dearly missed her clan. She may not know it, but he had taken that from her. Yet another shame for him to carry.

“These are the aravels?” Cassandra asked, tripping over the word slightly.

But Riallan didn’t hear her, she was already bounding down the bank and into the water. Her joy ran away with her, lending wings to her feet as she reached the other side of the shallow river, her bare toes sure in the firm mud of the bank.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra shouted, but it was a wasted effort. Riallan was already gone, her heart and mind leagues away in the Free Marches.

“Flying, soaring, thunder in her ears. Sun in the sails, stars in their eyes, warmth in their hearts.” Cole looked at Solas, his gaze unseeing as he read Riallan’s racing thoughts. “Home.”

He knew that clan Lavellan were fairly progressive, if reclusive. He hoped, for her sake, this clan would welcome her with open arms.

Cole looked at him then. “They keep coming back, searching, seeking, sad, but home is gone.”

“Yes, Cole,” he said. “It is.”

“I’m sorry, da’len,” said the Keeper. “You are one of the People, but we do not trust this Inquisition.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, even she had felt the same until recently. And yet, Hawen’s words stung more than she cared to admit. Not least because she saw the prejudice in his distrusting glances at her companions. Did Deshanna look at city elves that way? Was her clan no better? Were all Dalish so insular?

Was Solas right about them after all?

“I— of course, hahren. I understand.” There was no keeping the disappointment from her voice. This was a rejection, even if it was wrapped in wise and kind words. It was as she had feared, the humans would vaunt her for as long as it was convenient and she would pay for their fervor with the acceptance of her kin.

But she couldn’t give up that easily. “May we rest with your clan for the evening?” She kept her voice quiet, hoping that her companions would not hear their conversation. Though she suspected Cole would tell all over dinner anyway.

She saw the hesitance on Hawen’s face and closed her eyes. “Forgive me, hahren. I did not mean to impose.” She turned to leave, but he stopped her with the brush of fingertips on her shoulder.

“Tel’abelas, da’len,” he said. “I am sorry. Of course you can join us.” He gave a wary glance at Cassandra, but smiled at Riallan.

She understood his concerns about the Seeker. She was an imposing figure, a capable warrior, and above all, human. But, Riallan worried more about Solas. Their only argument had been about the Dalish, heated and full of brash words she regretted. It was not something they had ever resolved. She would need to talk with him before tensions rose in the camp.

“Ma serannas, hahren.” She inclined her head in deference to the Keeper. “I will inform my people.”

She stepped away to the edge of the camp, Solas and Cassandra following her. Cole was nowhere to be seen.

“I am here,” the spirit promised, his voice frail as wind. “It would not help them to see me.”

“Thank you, Cole,” she said.

“That conversation did not seem,” Cassandra paused to find the right word. “Welcoming.”

Solas snorted, but said nothing.

Riallan cast a disapproving glance his way, but if he noticed he gave no sign. “They are, understandably, hesitant to trust us.”

Dark brows rose high on the Seeker’s face. “But you are Dalish!”

“A Dalish representing a human organization with ties to the Chantry,” Riallan added.

“And accompanied by a Seeker of Truth and flat ear, no less,” Solas said. There was no heat in his words.

Riallan was pretty sure that made it worse. “Hawen said nothing of the sort.”

“He did not have to.” He leaned on his staff and looked away from her.

She had no argument to make and it only made her angrier. “He has invited us to spend our evening in the camp,” she said.

“Ma nuvenin,” he said. The words were a cold wind in her ears.

Cassandra looked between them with confusion. “You are fighting. Why?”

“Solas takes issue with the Dalish,” she said, crossing her arms, wishing his disdain didn’t affect her so much.

“Reaching. So much they do not know. Grasping hands and hearts save all the wrong parts.” The spirit appeared, standing between Riallan and Solas.

“Leave it be, Cole,” Solas said.

“Their misunderstanding hurts.” He said it as a plea, begging the elf to let him help.

“Yes. But you cannot heal it.”

“I could try,” he said, petulant, displeased as a child being told ‘no’.

“And you would fail.”

“Perhaps because you don’t want to let the pain go,” Riallan said. “I don’t know what the Dalish did to slight you Solas, but this clan has offered us shelter. I, for one, would not offend them by refusing.”

That was an exaggeration, considering that she’d asked Hawen if they could stay, but he didn’t need to know that.

Cassandra gave Solas a sheepish look. “Something other than field rations would be a pleasant change.”

Solas pursed his lips, then looked at Riallan. “I do not disagree.” It wasn’t quite an apology, but there was no argument in his eyes. It was close enough.

“Then, it’s settled.” She forced a smiled at them and turned back to the camp, eager to mingle with her people.

This was not how Solas imagined spending his evening. The campfire and open sky were all correct, but being surrounded by modern elves, listening to their stories was unexpected. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, if he didn’t listen too closely.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Riallan sat down beside him, setting a wooden tankard down by her feet. The firelight flickered and billowed in shadows across her skin, giving her cheeks a duskiness she didn’t have by day.

“Try this,” she said and offered a piece of bread to him.

He took it, but did not try it. “What is it?”

“Honeyed bradh with halla butter.” There was laughter in her voice, a warmth he only heard after she’d visited with Varric and Bull in the Herald’s Rest. Perhaps the tinge in her cheeks had more to do with Dalish wine than the fire.

He took a tentative bite and let out a pleased sound.

She grinned. “You like it?” Her eyes shone with the light of the fire, and when she looked at him like that, like her whole world hinged on what he said next, he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Very much.” He took another bite to prove it. The bread was light and flaky, spread with spiced butter and a fine drizzle of honey on top. It was savory and sweet, hearty enough to have with a meal but sweet enough to crave for dessert.

She flushed at his approval, and then stole the final bite out of his hand. “I didn’t say you could have the whole thing!” She laughed even as she shoved the bread into her mouth. “Don’t tell on me, but this better than my clan’s.” She giggled, the sound girlish and carefree.

Definitely feeling the effects of the wine, then.

He leaned in to bump his shoulder against hers. “You secret is safe with me, if—” he gave her a wicked little smile, “—you get me another piece of that bradh.”

The look she gave him flushed him with warmth that had nothing to do with the fire. “Ma nuvenin, Solas.”

And then she was up and gone, hunting to fulfill his request. Across the fire Cassandra leaned against an aravel, talking with one of the clan’s hunters. From what he could hear they were sharing hunting stories, and she’d regaled the elf with a tale of Pentaghast dragon hunters. Cole remained out of sight, but Solas saw him in the little mercies that had played out over the evening meal. A knife that should have slipped and sliced simply fell instead. The fish that would have burned were magically flipped while no one looked. And, he noticed now, the Inquisitor’s drink had filled in her absence.

“Cole,” he chided.

“The wine helps,” the spirit said, though he didn’t appear.

“That is debatable.”

“She is comfortable. Thoughts quieter. Frantic, buzzing, soothed with warmth.”

Solas sighed. “Remember that too much can lead to hurt. It weakens the will and tears down walls that should remain in place.”

Cole blinked at him, suddenly manifested before him. “She wishes you would let your walls down.” He tilted his head. “Would you like wine?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “No, thank you.”

The spirit vanished as Riallan returned. She bowed, an exaggerated flourish of arms and legs, and offered him the bradh she found. “Your bradh, Master Solas.”

He bit back a smile at her antics, but took the bread. He was halfway through a bite when she sat beside him, much closer this time, and lifted her tankard. “Did you refill my wine?”

He choked and she laughed at him. “No,” he said. “Cole was _helping._ ”

“Aww, thanks Cole!”

“You’re welcome,” came the spirit’s disembodied voice.

She took a sip and looked out over the fire, her eyes lingering on the people and conversations happening all around them. Someone had found a lyre and strummed it aimlessly until a song formed and a few people took up singing. It was a soothing melody in a mixture of their broken elvhen and common.

It was no less beautiful for it.

He caught her watching him, her eyes suddenly intense. “What is it, lethallan?”

“This is why I asked to stay.” She held his gaze for a moment, then looked at the fire. “I wanted to share this life with you, even for just a night.” The words were barely a whisper, a confession he wasn’t certain she would have made under other circumstances.

He cleared his throat. “I thought the Keeper offered.”

She blushed. “I lied.”

“Why?” Just when he thought he understood her motivations she did something he didn’t expect.

“I didn’t want you to think I was desperate or homesick.” She stared down into the depths of her wine. The words no doubt confessed thanks to its influence.

“There’s nothing shameful in longing for the world you once knew,” he said.

She hummed and took another drink. “Maybe not shameful, but certainly foolish.”

Only because she lacked the power to bring back what was lost, he told himself. “If you could go back, if the anchor and the Breach had never happened, would you?”

He hadn’t meant to ask, but in the warm haze of the fire and the sweetness of the wine on her breath, the words just tumbled out.

She thought on his question for a long time, long enough that he thought she wouldn’t answer him at all. Then her hand was on his forearm, the barest touch that sent a jolt through him.

When he looked up her focus was undeniable. She held his gaze even through the flush of embarrassment and drink on her cheeks.

“No. No, I don’t think I would.”


	19. Another Kindness

Solas woke with a start, his heart lurching in his chest even as he blinked at the cloying fog of the Fade in his mind. For once he hadn’t journeyed anywhere in his sleep. He’d had too much to process from the night before and needed the honest rest. Riallan’s heated words and gaze had haunted him, promising more than he could ever hope to have.

But even that turmoil was not enough to obscure the voice that had called to him in his dreams.

Beside him, but thankfully on her own bedroll, Riallan was already sitting up, a cup of tea in her hands. Around them the Dalish camp began to stir, the fire rekindled, where a pot of water bubbled above it. He’d expected the Inquisitor to look worse for wear after her indulgence the night before, but the only hint she felt the after effects of the wine was the barest squint at the corners of her eyes.

“Bad dream?” She asked.

He couldn’t clear his thoughts and words felt slow and clunky in his mind. He gestured at her cup. “May I?”

She blinked, but did not hesitate to hand him her drink.

The tea was blessedly hot, a medicinal blend of elfroot and ginger. Perhaps she was feeling the wine after all. The liquid burned and stung, the spice of the ginger mingling with the elfroot to sting in his nasal passages and sinuses. He grimaced, took another sip, and handed the cup back.

“You don’t like it?”

He shook his head once. “It is tea. I detest the stuff. But I need to shake the dreams from my mind.” He shook his head and sighed. “I may also need a favor.”

Her eyes widened. “Of course, Solas. Anything you need.”

“I— thank you, Inquisitor.” More of the camp was stirring now, including Cassandra. Whatever his relationship with Riallan was, it wouldn’t do to have others aware of it. Not now at any rate.

She clued into his desire for discretion, the hand meant for his arm quickly returning to cradle her mug of tea. “What’s wrong?”

He ran a hand over his face, the well of frustration demanding movement. “One of my oldest friends has been taken captive by mages, forced into slavery. I heard the cry for help as I slept.”

She watched him, her eyes seeming to see straight through him. As always. “Your friend is a spirit?”

That earned her a tiny smile; she was cleverer than anyone in the Inquisition gave her credit for. “Yes,” he said. “A spirit of Wisdom. Unlike the spirits clamoring to enter our world through the rifts, it was dwelling quite happily in the Fade.” He frowned, struggling to keep his fury buried under his mask of calm. “It was summoned against its will, and wants my help to gain its freedom and return to the Fade.”

Her brow crinkled as she considered his words. “I thought spirits wanted to find their way into this world?”

While he was pleased that she asked questions, as he always was, Solas didn’t have much patience for her curiosity this morning. Not after that dream. “Some do, certainly. Just as many Orlesian peasants wish they could journey to exotic Rivain.” He shook his head. “But not everyone wants to go to Rivain! My friend is an explorer, seeking lost wisdom and reflecting it. It would happily discuss philosophy with you, but it had no wish to come here physically.”

His frustration must have been apparent because, though he saw lingering questions in her green eyes, Riallan did not ask them. “I’m happy to help, Solas.” This time she did not hesitate to put her hand on his arm. “Let’s go get your friend.”

He didn’t know why he was surprised. Of course Riallan would help him, he never should have doubted her. But any other modern mage would assume that a spirit was nothing more than a demon, that it was a lost cause. That Wisdom could not be saved now that it’d been bound against its will. Fear and ignorance would have stayed their hand.

But, it was increasingly clear to him that Riallan was not like any other he had met in this hollow world.

“Wisdom is not far from here, I’ll mark the location on our map.”

He tried to downplay his anxiety, Riallan could tell. Solas, normally so stoic and in control, was strung tight. His hands fidgeted, reflexively balling into fists the moment he forgot to relax them. His jaw clenched, the muscle spasming, though he didn’t seem to notice. If those hadn’t been indication enough of his concern, his determined march up the riverbank left no room to doubt.

He was terrified for his friend. Before Cole, Riallan wasn’t sure she would have understood. She would have helped, she would always help Solas after everything they’d been through together, but she wouldn’t have been able to comprehend the attachment to a spirit.

Knowing Cole made her realize that the concept of personhood was not limited to physical beings. Cole might be a spirit made manifest, but his personality was his, regardless of his body. She cared for the spirit, much like she would a younger sibling. If someone bound him against his will, she would do everything in her power to save him.

She would treat Solas’ friend no differently.

Ahead of her, Solas gasped. “No. No, no, no!” He’d stopped in the middle of the path, every line of his body tense with fury. “My friend!”

Riallan ran to join him, and she saw what had upset him so. Instead of a billowy wisp of a spirit, there stood a towering purple Pride Demon, panting and growling in the center of an intricate summoning circle.

“They’ve corrupted it,” she said, the words barely more than breath at the gut punch of realization.

“Yes,” he growled.

“How-?”

“- a spirit becomes a demon when it is denied its original purpose.” His words were fast, furious. Frantic. Even as he answered her she could see his thoughts racing behind his eyes, desperate for some plan. Searching for some way to undo this.

“So, they summoned it to do something so opposed to its nature that it became a demon… fighting?”

Before he could answer, a human mage approached them. His steps were timid as he looked them over, but once he saw their staves he sighed with relief. “Mages,” he said. “You’re not with the bandits?”

Riallan hadn’t thought Solas could get any more tense, but all that worry and fear congealed into something else altogether. Something incredibly cold and sharp. Suddenly he radiated icy fury and power, as if he were a predator preparing to pounce. She had never seen him so threatening, not even when they faced Corypheus in Haven. If she hadn’t trusted him with her life, she would be terrified of him.

The human did not notice the very real danger he was in. Like the fool he was, he kept talking. “Do you have any lyrium potions? Most of us are exhausted, we’ve been fighting that demon.”

Solas snapped. “You summoned that demon! Except it was a spirit of Wisdom at the time.” He took a step toward the man. “You made it kill, twisted it against its purpose!”

The human stuttered, lips trembling beneath his ridiculous mustache. “I… I understand that it may be confusing to someone who has not studied demons-”

“We’re not here to help _you_ ,” Solas seethed. His fingers were tipped in frost, and she realized he was barely keeping his magic under control. Emotional outbursts often led to unexpected magic, but that was in young, untrained mages. Solas was one of the most elegant and refined casters she had ever met.

She needed to get this situation under control before someone got hurt.

“Word of advice?” she glared at the human. “I’d hold off on explaining how demons work to my friend here.” She looked the mage up and down, letting her disdain show. “He knows more than you.”

That got a reaction.

“Listen to me!” He pointed at her, as if wagging his finger in her face made him that much more respectable. “I was one of the foremost experts in the Kirkwall-”

“Shut. Up.”

Solas’ voice lashed at the man, and he flinched. He looked at the apostate and seemed to truly see him for the first time.

“You summoned it to protect you from the bandits.” It wasn’t a question, wasn’t even an accusation. Solas said it as fact. He knew it, had accepted it, and now he was prepared to move on.

“I… yes.” The human at least had the decency to bow his head in shame.

Solas took another step toward the mage, and Riallan stiffened. She wasn’t sure what would happen if they got within reach of one another.

“You bound it to obedience and then commanded it to kill. _That_ is when it turned.”

The human made to argue, but Solas had no time for him now. He looked to her and his fury gave way to pleading.“The summoning circle. We break it, we break the binding. No orders to kill, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

She somehow doubted it was so simple. In her experience, nothing about the Fade was that simple. But he looked at her with such desperation, such hope, that she could not tell him as much.

Besides, he knew much more about spirits and the Fade than she did. She would not be the fool the humans were.

The human, once again, had no sense of self-preservation. “What? The binding is the only thing keeping that thing from killing us! Whatever it was before, it’s a monster now.”

Solas glowered at him, but spoke to her. “Inquisitor. Please.” It was the most helpless she had ever heard him. She never wanted to hear him sound that way again. She knew then that she would do anything to keep him from feeling like this.

Riallan nodded. “If we focus our attacks on the pylons, we’ll break the circle faster.”

The Pride Demon chose that moment to roar, and the human mage cowered before them, his hands clamped over his ears and his face scrunched up in fear. Riallan’s lip curled in disgust. A coward, too pitiful to face the consequences of his actions.

She expected Solas to lash out at the man, but he had eyes only for his friend. “We must hurry!” And then he took off, sprinting towards the summoning circle.

“Dareth shiral…”

Solas knelt in the dry grass, staring at where his oldest friend had been only a moment before. Wisdom was gone now, dissolved and blown away on a wind it had never wanted to feel. Distantly, he was aware of Riallan standing behind him, close, but not too close.

Did she fear him in that moment? He had shown more of himself in the past half-hour than she had ever seen. More emotion and power and turbulence than he had let anyone see in more years than he could count.

What must she think of him? But even as he wondered, he found he didn’t have the energy to truly care. He could deal with the fallout of his emotions another time.

“I heard what it said,” she said. Her voice was soft, soothing and yet… pained. Did she grieve for him? “It was right. You did help it.” Another kindness. Was her empathy truly so endless?

He could not look at her. Not yet. He sighed. “Now I must endure.” He wasn’t sure how at the moment. There had already been so much loss. He was already enduring. The prospect of carrying another heartache through this bleached and bleak world…

“Let me know if I can help,” she said.

He bowed his head, bit back the anger at her words. It was not legitimate. It was grief that made him want to yell that she had done too much. Had seen too much. That his debt to her was already too high. That he should not accept her offers of comfort because she wasn’t _real_.

But of course, he could not say any of that. Largely because it wasn’t entirely true. But also because, after all she had done for him, all the kindness and mercy she’d shown him, he would not hurt her like that. Not with careless, selfish words.

He stood and turned to face her. He tried to smile, but suspected it was a weary and frail thing. “You already have.” Movement in his periphery stole his attention, squelched the thanks he was about to give her.

The mages.

“All that remains now is them.” He turned away from her, the anger from moments ago returned in an agony of fire in his veins.

“Thank you,” the leader, the supposed expert, said. “We would not have risked a summoning,” he tried to sound apologetic and failed. There was no real regret in his voice, just relief. “But the roads are too dangerous to travel unprotected.”

Solas stalked toward him, the rage boiling up as he spoke. “You tortured and killed my friend.”

Now, finally, the mage understood the danger he was in. He took several steps back, his eyes darting over Solas’ shoulder to the Inquisitor. “We didn’t know! It was just a spirit. The book said it could help us!”

As the grief and fury crashed through him, for the first time since waking Solas felt powerful. Capable. The emotions tangled with his mana and suddenly all of him was on fire and desperate for release. He lifted his hand, summoned that boiling power close, and then-

“Solas.”

His name on her lips. Not angry. Not afraid. Not disappointed or ashamed or disbelieving. Just his name in a soft, tender tone. It wasn’t a command, he understood that at once. She would not keep him from this path if it was what he truly wanted. But she wanted him to be sure, to take a moment and think of who and what he was, how that might change if he obliterated the sniveling mages before him.

It was enough.

He faltered, his hand lowering even as a part of him still raged. He locked eyes with the lead mage and growled, “never again.” He turned away, ignored the trembling sigh of relief from the mage, and looked at his feet. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Riallan. He wasn’t sure what she would see on his face, blame, relief, anger, grief… None of it was something he wanted to share. Not even with her.

“I need to be alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

And he walked away. He heard her take a step toward him, heard the intake of breath as she prepared to call out, but she did not follow. She did not call to him. Even as he felt her eyes on his back and the weight of her heart on his shoulders, she let him go.

Yet another kindness.


	20. Drowning

They lingered in the Exalted Plains for a week, just to be sure Solas wouldn’t return to them. He had said they’d meet at Skyhold, but she couldn’t help hoping he would find them and come back to her.

“He’s not coming,” Cole said on the seventh morning. He crouched beside the dying embers of their fire, his hands held before it for warmth. “Hidden. Safe, but hurting. Lost to dreaming, when Wisdom and Pride sang the same songs.”

As was usual with Cole’s insights, Riallan didn’t fully understand what he said. But she understood enough to know that Solas was safe. Grieving and alone, but safe.

And she couldn’t delay their journey home any longer.

When they reached the fortress, she hoped that he would be there, that he would be standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for her. When he wasn’t, she hoped that he’d be in the rotunda, back to their familiar routine of wine and painting. They would talk about what had happened, he would tell her stories about Wisdom and all the things he’d learned from his friend.

But when she poked her head into the round room, there was no veilfire. No candlelight. The murals were lifeless and bland without him there to fill the room.

“Hey, Herald,” Varric said from behind her. “The Seeker says Chuckles didn’t come back with you?”

She shook her head, casting a glance over her shoulder. “There was… he needed some time alone.”

He paused, considering her words. “Sounds like a hell of a story.” He cocked his head toward the exit. “Come on. Drinks are on me.”

She almost didn’t go. Solas cherished his privacy; she didn’t want to give his secrets away because Varric plied her with drinks. But she desperately needed to talk about what had happened, because deep in her heart, she feared he wasn’t coming back.

So they went to the Herald’s Rest. They sat in a corner, across from where Maryden sang, and she gave him a vague summary of what happened in the Plains.

“Huh,” he said after a moment. “I don’t pretend to understand the whole befriending a spirit thing, but it obviously meant a lot to him.” He took a pull on his tankard and gave her a pointed look. “I have a feeling there aren’t many people Solas considers important.”

She sighed, staring into the depths of her ale. “What if he doesn’t come back?” She hated even thinking that might be the case. She trusted Solas. He was her first friend in the Inquisition, the person she’d confided in when everything felt like it was closing in on her. And now he was something more, though she wasn’t sure what.

“Hey,” Varric said, his voice soft and understanding. “He said he would meet you here, right?”

She nodded.

“Then he’s coming back.” He leaned back in his chair, a smug smile on his face, but she didn’t quite buy his bravado.

“You didn’t see him, Varric.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him so… passionate. He would have killed those mages if I hadn’t stopped him.”

“Well, you know what they say about still waters. There was bound to be some intensity under all that calm.”

She smirked at that. The dwarf had no idea.

“Just… try not to drown in them, huh?”

She frowned and looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re a hero,” he held up a hand to stave off her argument otherwise, “regardless of what you think on the subject. You’re saving all of Thedas, damn near single-handedly. And, well,” he sighed. “I’ve written enough Hero stories to know, they never get a happy ending.”

She ran her finger along the ridge of her tankard. “You think Solas and I shouldn’t—“

“I think only you two can decide that. And you’re both smart. Too smart, if you ask me.” He gave her a broad smile. “You’ll figure it out.” He patted her hand and then knocked back the remainder of his ale.

“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.”

Solas didn’t return the next morning, or any mornings for the next two weeks. Riallan would have sent a search party out for him days ago if it hadn’t been for Cole’s cryptic assurances that he was safe. It was all she had to go on, and she desperately wanted to respect his privacy, so she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It’d been almost a month since Wisdom had died when Riallan stood on her balcony, staring out over the river and the massive forward camp outside the fortress walls. It was mid-summer, but this high in the mountains there was still a lot of snow. Below her, on the road up to the keep, she saw a lone figure with a tall walking stick, a dark shape against a backdrop of white.

She couldn’t be certain from such a distance, but her stomach did a hopeful flip anyway. Against all her better judgment, she ran down the stairs, through the hall, and down to the gates. She was halfway down the last flight of stairs when she saw him, his ocean eyes watching her with a guarded expression.

He looked… exhausted. Cole had said he dreamt the majority of the time he was away, but the man before looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. Dark circles ringed his eyes, bloodshot and drooping, and his posture was slumped and weary. She wanted to go to him, to wrap him in a relieved hug and ease his obvious suffering, but he stopped just short of her reach.

“You came back,” she said.

He nodded. “I wasn’t sure, for a time,” he said. “But only a short time. You were a true friend, you did everything you could to help.” He shook his head once. “I could hardly abandon you now.”

Riallan bit the inside of her lip to keep it from trembling at the thought of him leaving. That he’d considered not coming back spoke volumes of his grief. “Cole said you slept,” she said.

He gave a weak smile. “Yes. I visited the place in the Fade where my friend used to be.” A heavy breath. “It’s empty. But there are stirrings of energy in the void. Someday, something new may grow there.”

She had so many questions. What was death for a spirit? Did they truly vanish, gone from the world like mortals? What would grow in Wisdom’s place? Would its influence make any difference? But for once her thirst for knowledge could wait. This was not the time, not when the pain was still so blatantly fresh.

“The next time you have to mourn,” she said. “You don’t need to be alone.” It was a promise, an offer to help carry his burdens, and for once she didn’t blush at the vulnerability of her words.

He bowed his head, as if shamed by her offer. “It has been so long since I could trust someone…”

“I know.” She gave him a sad smile, hoping to comfort him.

He looked up at her and the guarded look in his eyes fell away. “I’ll work on it.” He swallowed, nodded his head once as if agreeing to something in his mind, and said, “thank you.”

She sensed that this conversation was over. He had returned because he could put Wisdom’s passing far enough behind him to continue his work for the Inquisition; he would not speak on it again unless prodded. She would let him move on.

“Do you need anything? Food, rest, a bath?”

That earned her a more genuine smile. “Ma serannas, but I can manage, lathallan.”

They walked up the stairs toward the main hall together, and she caught him up on the latest gossip. Little happy things to brighten his smile, like Sera teaching Cole how to prank Cassandra and Dorian’s drunken slip of the tongue about his relationship with Iron Bull. He laughed in all the right places, and when they parted ways Riallan felt lighter than she had since they’d stayed in the Dalish camp.

He had come home.


	21. Discoveries

When Riallan asked Solas to come with her to investigate an ancient ruin the Inquisition had discovered, he’d imagined a few crumbling walls, maybe a dank room or two, with barely anything to explore.

He had not imagined she had unearthed Dirthamen’s temple. Like most of the pantheon, Dirthamen had many such places, but this had been his favorite, the jewel in his midnight crown.

Solas had always hated it.

Walking the halls again, though now overgrown and flooded, filled him with an intense dread, the memories of his youth flashing in his mind, relentless.

His trepidation was matched only by Riallan’s excitement. This was her preferred deity after all. In the halls of Dirthamen her usual curiosity transformed into something sharp and unyielding. She paused at every mural, eyes roving the paintings, consuming every detail, desperate to discern the meaning behind each symbol. She was the First of her clan, their destined Keeper of knowledge and lore. It was her passion and it showed.

Even in the dank, dripping, dark of the temple, in a place he hadn’t walked in millennia, Solas was helpless against her charm.

She found the first glyph on the wolf statue, which he’d been surprised to see still stood. He imagined the priests would have defiled it or tore it down after he raised the veil. He was the reason Dirthamen abandoned them, after all.

Riallan held her veilfire torch closer to get a good look and froze.

Solas reached for her, but stopped short of touching her shoulder. He could feel the power, ancient and viscous, slow and slick like oil spilled from a lamp. “Inquisitor?”

She blinked rapidly, her eyes unfocused and wild, then she found him and returned to herself. “I… I understood that. How…?”

He pursed his lips, fighting the frown that tugged at his mouth. “The secrets of this temple have remained unspoken for too long. They wish to be known.” He ignored the crawling terror in his guts. “What did it say?”

Her brow furrowed. “It was a poem, about truths and secrets.” She looked around the room, but it was dark and there was nothing here but trees and sky and water. “There must be more further into the Temple.”

And so they went, exploring every corner of the dilapidated temple. Cassandra commented only when they found the dead explorers.

“I do not like this place,” she said. “It feels malevolent.”

“Whispers wanting, wasting, waiting for the Keeper of Secrets to come once more,” Cole said. He’d been especially quiet as they moved through the temple, and Solas worried that the veil might be too thin here. That the spirit might be vulnerable to the insidious magics that yet lingered.

Dirthamen had never been straightforward, nor one to forgive the merest slight. If there was anyone left in Thedas the elvhen would want to hurt, it would be Solas.

Cassandra sighed. “And now it is even creepier. Thank you, Cole.”

“You’re welcome.”

Riallan had no time for their banter. Torch in hand, she read another glyph, then turned wide eyes on him. “They went mad. Without Dirthamen, the secrets ate at them and they became paranoid. Convinced that their High Priest had betrayed them.” She shook her head. “They dismembered him and cursed his spirit to an eternity in this temple.”

Solas closed his eyes at the words. There had been a time when he’d known Dirthamen’s High Priest. They had never been friendly, since his relationship with Dirthamen had been tense even at the best of times, but knowing the man’s fate after he’d sealed his god away hurt him nonetheless.

She ran a hand through her wet hair, anger replacing confusion on her face. “Dirthamen was supposed to be the God of Secrets, the Keeper of Knowledge. Of learning!” Her eyes shone in the moonlight, “but this wasn’t a library or a school. It was a crypt, where knowledge came to die. They hoarded it to gain power, leverage. They were nothing more than spies!”

Her anger would have surprised him only months ago, but now he understood her a little better. She had chosen her vallaslin because of her love of elvhen lore, because she took her future as Clan Lavellan’s Keeper seriously. She would learn everything the world could teach her, and spread it to her people.

Like so many other things about Elvhenan, the Dalish had misinterpreted the truth. And now her faith was in crisis.

“Every society has great need of spies, lethallan,” he said, trying to soften the blow. There had been a time, when the Evanuris were of one mind, when Dirthamen had been a respected leader of Elvhenan. He helped build education centers, like the Vir Dirthara. Once, too many millennia ago to really count, he had been the God she believed him to be. Before greed and fear corrupted him, just like it did all the others.

She met his gaze, her eyes wondering and so disappointed. This place was not what she had hoped for. He would have told her as much, if he could tell her the truth at all.

“Let’s raise this priest and get it over with,” she said, turning away from him. “I want to put this place behind me.”

She marched ahead, down the grand staircase and into the knee-deep water that had filled Dirthamen’s sanctum. He thought it fitting that Dirthamen’s legacy would drown under the weight of all he’d hoarded.

“Will you tell me why the Inquisitor is so upset?” Cassandra asked once Riallan was far enough ahead of them.

For a moment he had forgotten the Seeker was even there. Of course that conversation would mean little to her. What the Dalish remembered was a vast library of knowledge compared to what the humans knew of the Elvhen.

He tilted his head toward her as they walked in tandem down the stairs. “The vallaslin, her face tattoos, the Dalish bear them to honor their gods. Each Creator has a design, each Dalish must pick a Creator to devote their life to.”

“Ah.” Cassandra frowned. “She has pledged herself to this Dirthamen?” The elvhen name rattled off her tongue, foreign and stilted.

He nodded. “Imagine learning that Andraste had not led a rebellion, but instead helped quash it.”

“That would be…”

“Faith-shattering?”

“Possibly,” she admitted. “I would require time.”

“Yes, and in that time you would be able to read the Chant, speak to your priests, and pray to your god.” He sighed. “Your doctrine was never forgotten, shattered into fragments for you to piece back together. Riallan has only her legends, her Keeper, and herself.”

“I- I think I understand.” She gave him a tiny, flickering smile. “Thank you, Solas.”

“If you’re finished talking about me,” Riallan called from the ritual platform, “I’d like to summon an ancient dead priest now.”

Her anger seeped into her every move. Her voice, her eyes flashing in the magic aura around the Priest’s body parts, the clench of her jaw. He wondered if she wanted to conjure him just so she could take her aggression out on something. Someone, who had once mattered to Dirthamen.

While he did not believe summoning the cursed spirit of the priest was a wise decision, he would not keep her from her vengeance. Especially not one so small as this.

They could handle whatever the High One had become.

He should have expected the Despair Demon. The entire temple reeked of it, and its presence had no doubt aided in its deterioration. As fights went, it was not the most difficult they had encountered, and in the end they perhaps did a service to the priest. He was free of his curse now, his spirit’s energy returned to the Fade.

They made camp a few miles beyond the temple, the fresh air and night sky a sweet relief to the dank and damp they’d spent hours in. Across the fire, Riallan was restless. She sat cross-legged, tearing blades of grass from the dirt with furious fingers.

“Dirth ma, lethallan,” he called. He spoke elvhen in an endeavor to give her privacy from the others, though he knew her grasp of the language was incomplete.

And Cole would understand regardless.

She didn’t look at him. “Tel’nuvena dirth, Solas.”

“Ir abelas, Riallan. Mala dhru’danem. Tel’dan’latha, mala sulevin tel’himem.” In fact, her desire to find the truth of the elvhen people had led her here. The temple was a great discovery, one she would celebrate if it weren’t for her damaged beliefs.

She shook her head. “Banal’dirtha. Elvhen tel’dhrua’em.”

“Ah,” he said. It seemed her crisis of faith had passed. Now she worried that the Dalish would not accept her findings. “Dhru tel’dya himana vindhru.”

She smiled at that, just a little. She had said the same to him when he’d told her it didn’t matter if she wasn’t truly the Herald of Andraste. _Belief should not outweigh the truth._

Her anger at the knowledge in Dirthamen’s temple had burned hot and fast, leaving behind not even grudging acceptance. Her god was not what she had come to believe. She couldn’t change that, but that didn’t mean she would stop honoring who she thought he was. She would keep the ideals that had shaped her.

It made him wonder if she would handle all unpleasant revelations with such grace. A dangerous thought indeed.

“You’re right, Solas,” she said. She looked at him, and some of the tension had left her neck and shoulders. “Ma serannas.”

“Sathem, Riallan.”

Watching her in the fading firelight, after walking by her side as she discovered ancient secrets and battled heart-shattering truths, Solas came to a decision. Really, there had never been a doubt, no matter how he knew it must end.

Once they returned to Skyhold, he would take what happiness he could find.

**Elvhen translations, based on Project Elvhen:**

Dirth ma, lethallan - Talk to me, kin.

Tel’nuvena dirth - I don’t want to talk

Ir abelas - I’m sorry

Mala dhru’danem - Your faith is shattered

Tel’dan’latha, mala sulvein tel’himem - Do not weep/mourn, your purpose has not changed

Banal’dirtha - I’ll never speak (of this)

Elvhen tel’dhrua’em - The People will not believe me

Dhru tel’dya himana vindhru - Belief shall not drown the truth (reference to Perseverance)

Ma serannas - My thanks/thank you

Sathem - You’re welcome (informal)


	22. Peculiar

It had been another long day in the war room. Riallan appreciated her advisors, she could never head the Inquisition without them, but after more than eight hours standing around arguing about the future of Orlais, she could think of a million other places she would rather be.

The rotunda chief among them.

But first, she needed to eat something and take a bath. When they had first reached Skyhold she had refused the large tower room when Josephine had given it to her. She was just one person, what would she do with so much space? At least four aravels could fit in her quarters, and each of those housed an entire family! But now she was grateful for so much private space.

Few visited her here. Most would knock on the door and wait for her to come to them, where they would then inevitably move the conversation somewhere less intrusive. Six months ago she would have been lonely with no one to share her personal space, but it turned out she often needed the reprieve.

Being the Inquisitor was exhausting.

She lingered in the bath, luxuriating in the warmth and the aromas of the soaps. She still used the ones Solas had found for her birthday, but only occasionally. She wanted to make them last. But after the day she had, she allowed herself the indulgence.

Once she felt suitably relaxed, Riallan dressed in her usual casual clothes. Halla hide leggings, a loose linen tunic that had a habit of falling off one shoulder, and the worn loden wool shawl Deshanna had made for her journey to the Conclave. She wrapped her feet to the ankle for propriety’s sake; it felt strange to walk through the keep completely barefoot, and then set off down the stairs.

She reached for the first door, the one that led up into her room, just as someone knocked on it. It was unlike Josephine to call on her in the evening. Had something happened? She opened the door, her heart hammering in her chest, but it wasn’t Josephine who waited for her.

“Solas.” His name fell from her, breathy and relieved.

He didn’t seem to notice. “Lethallan,” he said. His eyes darted over her face, taking in her damp hair and casual dress. He glanced behind her, as if he might find someone there. “I hope I am not intruding.”

She almost laughed. The only person she wanted in her room was him, but she wouldn’t say as much. He had asked for time. Over two months ago, but still, she would honor his request. She opened the door further, gesturing for him to come in. “Not at all. I was actually just coming down to join you in the rotunda.”

He smiled at that, but the expression was fleeting. He marched up the stairs, giving her room a cursory glance before heading straight for the balcony. She followed him, confounded as to what would bring him to her room. And what could have him in such a preoccupied state.

“What were like before the anchor?” He asked. He seemed nervous, anxious. His weight shifted from foot to foot, and though he met her gaze, it was never for long. “Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?”

She blinked. Usually she was the one with all the questions. She considered her hand, but for now the anchor was calm, and there was nothing to see but a faint, pulsing green scar in her palm.

“I don’t believe so,” she said. “But do you think I would notice if it did?” That seemed like the sort of thing that would happen so subtly and absolutely that she would be none the wiser. Which was terrifying.

“Ah,” he said. He sounded disappointed. “You’re right, of course.”

She smiled at him, laughter lurking on her lips. He could be so peculiar when his mind moved faster than their conversations. Lucky for him, she found it endearing. “Why do you ask?”

“You show a wisdom I have not seen… since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade.” He shook his head once. “You are not what I expected.”

This time, she did laugh. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s not disappointing, it’s,” he sighed and tried again. She’d never seen him struggle with words quite like this before. What had flustered him so? “Most people are predictable. You have shown subtlety in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected.” He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the words that came next. “If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours… have I misjudged them?”

Riallan thought about it for a moment. She thought about Deshanna, and Hawen, and the Keepers she could remember from the last Arlathvhen, Marethari and Zathrian. Out of all of them, the only one who didn’t harbor some sort of grudge against the world was her maela.

She ran a hand through her hair. “Maybe a little, but honestly Solas, the Dalish aren’t just one thing. They are clans full of individuals who have their own struggles and biases.” She shrugged. “I was lucky to have my Keeper. She’s… different from the others. She helped me be different too.”

“Your grandmother,” he said. “Deshanna.”

Her chest filled with warmth to hear her name on his lips. Not for the first time she wondered what her maela would think if she brought home a clanless man. Would she look at him like Hawen had, with pity and distrust? Or would she trust her dirtha’len and welcome him with open arms?

“You miss her,” he said, when her thoughts had run away with her for too long.

“I do,” she said. There was no point lying about it. “I’m learning that there are some downsides to clan life, but there’s a lot worth missing too.”

“Perhaps that is it,” he said. “Most people act with so little understanding of the world, but not you. You always endeavor to learn more of it.”

She blushed. Coming from him, that was high praise indeed. “What does this mean, Solas?” Why was he here and where was this conversation headed?

This time, when he spoke, he didn’t look away from her. “It means, I have not forgotten the kiss.”

Riallan held his gaze, searching his face for any hint that he still had doubts, but in this moment his eyes were clear. Hopeful. She stepped toward him, and he took a little half-step closer to her. “Good,” she said.

The edge of the sun descended behind the mountains, washing the balcony in pale gold light. When he didn’t say anything she stepped closer again and looked up at him, her hands clasped behind her back. It was a little joke, a mimicry of his usual posture.

And with her jaw raised, her neck exposed, and her eyes watching his face, it was a dare. The question was, would he take it?

For a moment she thought he would. Solas leaned in, just a little, but then he shook his head. Slow and uncertain, as doubt crept into his eyes once more. He turned his body away from her and stepped away.

She grabbed his arm,the gesture quick but light. It was enough to stop him, but not enough to make him look at her. “Don’t go,” she said. Her voice was soft, but not pleading. Instead it held a promise. She was here, she had waited. She wanted him, if he would only let himself have her.

Why was this so hard? From where she stood it felt easy. Caring for him, with his quiet demeanor, his passion for knowledge, and his carefully controlled passion, that was easy.

“It would be kinder in the long run,” he said. He still hadn’t turned to face her. “But losing you would…”

He turned, took a single step, and suddenly he was there. He was in her space, his body warm against hers, his hands finding her waist without hesitation. He pulled her to him, pressed flush against his chest, and kissed her.

She was inundated, overwhelmed, and utterly absorbed by him. His heat, the sharp cedar scent of his clothes, the jawbone necklace he wore a hard press against her belly. But above all the soft, yet demanding pressure of his mouth on hers.

In the Fade, there had only been his mouth, it had been all she could focus on in the way dreams were. Her world had zeroed in on his lips and how they moved with hers. But, here on her balcony, there was so much to hear and smell and taste and _feel_. Solas was everywhere and everything. His arms around her, a hand on her ass holding her tight against him, while he bent her back slightly to deepen the kiss.

Riallan yielded to him. She let him explore this moment however he pleased; she was just happy it was even happening. She had waited months to know if his kiss was as passionate by day as it was in the Fade. If he would taste the same, sharp and sweet and warm. He did, she realized, and let her tongue slide along his lips.

A little moan escaped him, and she thrilled at the sound and at the fact that he did not stop. He did not walk away. She clung to his shoulders as his thigh pressed between her legs, and still the kissing did not stop. And she didn’t want it to.

Finally, they did break apart, both panting as Solas bent his forehead to hers. His hands found a home at her ribs, his thumbs brushing perilously close to the sides of her breasts. Her eyes widened, lips parted, but he didn’t notice.

He brushed his nose against hers and said, “ar lath ma, vhenan.”

She froze, but he was already letting go of her. She felt as if the he had pulled the air from her lungs with those four words, and instead of pulling her up for air he was walking away. Before she could process, before she could even consider if she could return the words and mean them, Solas was down the stairs and out of sight.

The door creaked shut behind him, and the sound made her flinch. Made her breathe again. He had told her he loved her. Had called her vhenan… his heart.

She leaned against the wall of her room, the cold twilight wind whipping in off the mountains, and sighed. Now, in the fading light, her room looked barren. When she looked at the four-post bed, the one she’d chosen because the fabric overhead helped her pretend she was sleeping in an aravel, it looked massive.

Lonely.

If he had asked, she would have let him stay. She wasn’t sure she could return his love just yet, but she knew she wanted to try. Creators she wanted him, and if he was going to keep kissing her like that…

She covered her face and laughed. Had he just told her he loved her and then… ran away? Solas was a peculiar man indeed. But, she had reason to believe that he was her peculiar man, and that made it all okay. Riallan had a feeling she would forgive just about anything if he kept kissing her like that.


	23. Heaven in Hiding

The evening was late, but Solas sat at his desk in the rotunda, sketching Riallan where she sat reading on the sofa. The night had progressed as usual between them with a bottle of wine, a plate of fruits and cheeses, and quiet work. She hadn’t spoken of the day before, of his ridiculous blunder of professing his love to her so quickly, but she smiled whenever she caught him looking at her and she beamed when he called her vhenan. So no harm done, it seemed.

She growled at the book and flipped back a few pages. “That doesn’t make sense,” she said. She’d spent the entire evening pouring over the tome, her brow furrowed and her lips pressed into a hard line.

“What are you reading?” He asked.

“My trainer’s notes on Rift Magic,” she said.

“You trainer?”

“That’s her name, apparently,” she said. Then shook her head. “My advisors think I should pursue a specialization, and I’m beginning to think I chose the wrong one.”

He smiled at her frustration. It was rare to see her so at odds with something knowledge-based. “What were your options?”

“Knight Enchanter, which is too up close and personal for me, and Necromancy which is Dorian’s wheelhouse.” She shuddered. “It’s spooky enough when he does it, we don’t need two of us.”

“I am a Rift Mage.”

“I know, and I was hoping that meant you’d be my teacher. Instead Josephine brings me this!” She slapped the cover of the book with the back of her hand.

“Think of the appearances,” he said. “An apostate with no formal training teaching the Herald of Andraste in a new, dangerous form of magic? It would cause an uproar.”

She groaned. “I am so sick of caring about what the Andrastians think about me. I wish they didn’t think about me at al!”

He stood and moved to perch on the arm of the sofa. “I know vhenan, but their belief gives you the power to close the rifts, to fight Corypheus.”

“No,” she said, letting her frustration soak the word. “The mark gives me that power.”

“And the believers give you their coin and their land and their approval. You would be hobbled without them.”

She glared at him, which told him she knew he was right. “May I?” He gestured at the book.

“Please. I need you to tell me it’s gibberish, otherwise I’m going to think it’s my Dalish upbringing that makes this so difficult.” She gave the book a distrustful look. “That is not how we teach magic in the clan.”

He hummed as he leafed through the pages. “I would certainly hope not. Your trainer, is she…” he searched for a polite word, “well?”

Riallan snorted. “Physically, maybe. Mentally she’s a bit, well, addled.” She cocked her head at him. “Why do you ask?”

He waved a hand over the book. “I can tell from these pages that she’s a very talented mage, but her approach to Rift Magic is wrong, and very dangerous.”

Her eyes found his and stayed there, that indomitable focus trained on him in a way that would have made him blush if he weren’t so accustomed to controlling his expressions. “What do you mean?”

“She’s broken it down into the minutia, each piece added to the next, as if calling on the Fade were a simple recipe. And with elemental magics, it can be so simple. But this is the Fade. It does not follow rules and logic and science. At least, not purely.” He closed the book and handed it back to her. “When you use Rift Magic, you are not casting with your innate connection to the Fade, you are reaching through to the Fade using your knowledge of and connection to the rifts. It is at once science and art. Emotion and control. If you do not strike a balance, you will be left just as addled as she is.”

She set the book in her lap and sighed. “Comforting.”

He smiled. “It is not so difficult as it sounds, and with your talent I expect you will master it quickly.” He made to get up, to return to his desk, but her hand reached out and grabbed his.

“Will you teach me?” Wide eyes begged him to agree.

He chuckled. “I will assist you where I can, vhenan,” he said. Her hand tugged on his pulling him closer until he stood before her, looking down into her upturned face. By the Void but she was beautiful. Her cheeks bore the faint pink of wine and frustration, her lips matched and were parted so slightly as she watched him. He found himself bending at the waist as she tugged on his hand once more, succumbing to her gravity.

“We can hardly have the Inquisitor addled, after all,” he said, but the words were lost in the tentative brush of her lips on his. They kissed, soft and languid, enjoying without demanding more, until the screech of chair legs on stone made Solas pull away. Desperate, he snatched the book from her lap, opened it to a random page, and turned his back to the doorway.

“Don’t stay up too late, you two,” Varric called. There was a smugness in his voice Solas did not appreciate. The dwarf saw far too much.

“We won’t,” Riallan said. Her voice was high and thready, and he could only imagine the bright pink of her blush at almost being caught. “Goodnight, Varric.”

“Goodnight, Herald. Chuckles.”

“On nydha,” he said, but did not look at the dwarf. Only once Riallan let out a shaky breath did he turn back to face her. As he’d guessed, her face was flushed, but what he hadn’t expected was the look of disappointment on her face.

“What are we doing here, Solas?”

He frowned. “I don’t—“

“You call me vhenan, you,” she paused and glanced at the floor above them. Dorian had yet to come down from the library that evening, so she pitched her voice into a whisper. “You tell me you love me, but then you’re ashamed to let Varric see us kiss?”

He sat beside her on the sofa and pulled her hands to rest in his on his lap. “Not ashamed, vhenan. Never ashamed.” How could she think such a thing? “I am…a very private person.”

That earned him a wry smile. “So I’ve noticed.”

He chuckled. “I would prefer not to advertise our relationship.” He brow furrowed and he hurried to continue, “Not hide it. I am not ashamed, Riallan, but the more people know about us, the less privacy we will have. And there is your reputation to consider.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t care what people think,” she said.

“I know, vhenan, but I do.” He shook his head. “I care what they think of you, and I would not have them use our relationship as ammunition against you.”

She mulled over his words. “I can tell people, though?”

He inclined his head and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “If you so wish,” he said. “I ask only that you consider who among our friends would be least likely to gossip.”

She thought about it, her lip caught between her teeth in an all too attractive manner. “I think that leaves Cullen,” she said and laughed. “A secret it is, then, for now.” She tilted her head at him, letting her eyes wander over his face, heat pooling in her gaze. “It could be fun.”

He cleared his throat, ignoring the suggestive quality in her voice. “I apologize. We should have discussed this sooner.”

“Would have been nice,” she said. “But you kind of ran away yesterday.” She graced him with a smile, promising she took no offense.

“Ah. Yes.” He blushed. “I was embarrassed. I hadn’t meant to say that—“

Her smile faded, hurt flashing in her eyes.

“Fenhedis! No, Riallan, I meant the words, but you must admit the timing was…”

“Fast?”

“Incredibly,” he admitted. “Telling you yesterday was impulsive, ridiculous, and utterly unplanned. But it was true.”

“It really has been a long time, hasn’t it?” She was teasing him and it helped set him at ease.

“Yes,” he said. “I am liable to continue blundering through this.” He raised her hand to press his lips to her knuckles. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Emerald eyes watched his lips as he kissed her hand, as he spoke. She licked her lips. “Consider it forgotten.”

“Ar lath ma, Riallan.”

Her smile returned, but it was shy. “What if I can’t say those words back just yet?”

“Then you would be the reasonable one in this relationship.” He shook his head. “Take your time, vhenan. I would much rather your love come naturally than be forced by my foolish confession.”

The smile she gave him then was true and bright. “In that case,” she said as she stood from the sofa and stretched. “You have to stop calling me by my full name. No one in my family calls me by it.”

His eyes flashed over her face, noting the playful tilt to her lips, the bright mirth in her green eyes. “What shall I call you then?”

“I rather like vhenan,” she said. “But it’s hardly subtle. My clan calls me Ria, except Deshanna when she’s mad at me.” She shook her head. “Every time I hear Riallan I think I must be in trouble!”

A part of him tucked that knowledge away for another time, but for now he smiled. “Then, goodnight, Ria.” He liked the sound of her nickname on his lips. Short and sweet, and intimate. It suited her. Suited them.

She made to leave the rotunda, but paused by the door. “Will I see you tonight?” Her cheeks went so slightly pink, and the hope in her voice sent a heat through his veins.

“Ma nuvenin, vhenan.”

Then she stepped away and into the dark of the main hall to climb the stairs and fall asleep in her too large bed. Waiting to dream with him. And if her heated looks and eager kisses were any indication, he knew what would be on her mind.

With her nickname bouncing around his head, he couldn’t think of a reason why to deny her.


	24. Excuses

Riallan knew it was a dream right away. It wasn’t that they were back in her favorite meadow outside Wycome, that was believable enough. As the weather grew warmer and warmer in the Frostbacks, heralding summer, her heart clamored for the coastal air and the warmth of lowland sun. She would go there now if she could.

It wasn’t that Solas was there, resting back on his palms on the riverbank, eyes closed and face upturned to the sun.He was a feature in her daily life these days; it would be stranger if he wasn’t there with her.

No, what told her it was a dream was that she was sunbathing, stretched out on the bank in just her small clothes. She hadn’t done that since just after receiving her vallaslin, at first because the tattoos were sensitive to the sun, but then her duties as First had kept her busy. With her dedication to Dirthamen came increased responsibilities. She rarely had free time to just lay around.

“You’re very fond of this place,” Solas said. She looked up at him, smiled at how he looked everywhere but at her. She thought he must be warm in his usual tunic and leggings, but it was the Fade. Maybe he could just imagine the discomfort away.

“A lot happened in this meadow,” she said. His silence begged her to continue. “I found my magic here, during a summer storm.” It had been a terrifying experience, as if the lightning had barreled down from the sky and into her chest, only to explode out of her hands. But Deshanna had felt the swell of power and mitigated the damage.

“I kissed my first boy here,” she said, then laughed. “My first girl too, though that was a couple summers later.” She peered up at him to gauge his reaction to her revelation, but his expression held only warmth and appreciation. It seemed he liked hearing about her youth.

“As you know, I received my vallaslin here.”

A tentative brush of fingertips over her stomach made her breath catch.

Solas traced the bright green line of her vallaslin as it bisected her torso, passing through her belly button. “I did not realize the markings went beyond your face.” There was awe in his voice and something else, something almost sad.

She swallowed hard, struggling to find her words with his hand on her skin. “Few decide to mark more than their face,” she said.

“Why did you?”

“Honestly? Because Deshanna did, and I was desperate to prove I would be as good a Keeper as she was.” She chuckled. “A really stupid reason to withstand so much pain.”

“Do you regret it?” There was a weight to his gaze she didn’t understand, but she desperately wanted to remove it.

“No,” she said. “I like it. I like how it looks. But if I could make the decision again I wouldn’t get them at all.”

He cocked his head at her and let his palm splay across her stomach. “Why not?”

“The vallaslin prove nothing. They don’t prove devotion or status or respectability. That comes from our actions.” She laced her fingers through his, relishing such simple touch. “The type of Keeper I will be has nothing to do with how many hours I could bear the needle, or how much of my body I devoted to Dirthamen.” She shook her head. “Especially when it turns out he wasn’t worth honoring in the first place.”

He moved to lay beside her, on his side, propped up on one elbow. His hand stayed on her belly, warm and heavy and reassuring. “You’re angry.”

She shook her head. “No. Not really. Not anymore. I mostly just have questions.”

Riallan moved to mimic his posture, laying on her side, propped on an elbow, facing him. They were close now, closer than they would be if this were the waking world, she was certain. He was more casual here, less vigilant. He had said the Fade was easier for him, and his behavior here made it clear.

Solas’ touch was light but unafraid. His hand roamed from her ribs to her hip and back, brushing a lazy path along her skin. He watched her face, keen to be sure she approved of such a touch, but once it was clear she had no desire to stop him, he grew bolder.

He used her vallaslin as an excuse to touch more of her. He followed the line up from her belly button, through the valley of her sternum, and up her throat. It was the faintest, featherlight breath of sensation.

She bowed her neck to the side, inviting him to explore her jaw, and then her ear. She closed her eyes as he obliged her, her lips parted and breath coming fast. When he cupped her face in one hand, she opened her eyes to find a different kind of weight in his eyes.

That one she recognized, and she had no trouble returning the heat in kind.

He leaned toward her, just a fraction, a subtle submission. But he let her bridge the gap between them and press her lips to his.

It was a gentle kiss, slow and exploratory. Despite the fervor of their previous encounters, this was still new. They were still learning the intricacies of one another, the little preferences and tricks that made them unique.

Solas, for all his timidity leading up to the kiss, was not so hesitant once they’d begun. He wasn’t forceful, but his tongue did not ask questions. It offered answers, promises, hints. A gentle push into the heat of her mouth, eager to explore. A flick against her upper lip, suggestive of where else it might be put to use. That made her moan against his lips, and he chuckled.

“Felas, vhenan,” he said, the words little more than breath against her mouth. “We have time.”

She didn’t want to take their time. Hadn’t they taken enough already? She had wanted this, wanted him, since before they left Haven. It’d been months since they last kissed in the Fade, and while the kiss shared on the balcony had been all she could have hoped for, it was too brief to slake her desire for him.

But, she acquiesced. She let her pace fall back to match his, and did her best to revel in the taste and smells and sounds of him. That didn’t stop her hands from sneaking under his tunic in their desperation to feel his skin, however.

He hissed when her nails trailed over his stomach, and she thought he might pull back. She always worried she might cross some unknown boundary with him, that one moment they would be fine and the next he would take offense. But his hand found her hip and pulled her across the bank to press against him.

It was a natural thing to sling a leg over his hip as their tongues tangled. And then she was on top of him. His hand never left her hip, while his other found purchase at the back of her neck.

She moved against him and he shuddered beneath her. She didn’t care if this was only the Fade, if it was little better than a dream. She had imagined this for months.

“Vhenan,” he said. When she didn’t stop, he put his hands on her ribs, pushing her to sit up. “Ria.”

She felt flushed, as if every inch of her skin was covered in a deep blush. She sat astride him, her hand on his neck. “What? What’s wrong?” She panted, which was suddenly embarrassing.

He shook his head. “I don’t think we should do this.”

She pulled back from him, as if the words were a physical blow. He looked at her, propped on his elbows, blossoms of pink on his high cheekbones, then glanced away. But not before she’d seen the emotion on his face. Guilt, shame, and desire.

He wanted this as much as she did, but something held him back.

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Too fast?” She nodded to herself and rolled off of him, staring up into the perfect blue sky. “I’m going too fast. I’m sorry, I--”

“Please, do not apologize.” He rolled to look down at her, his hand resuming its place on her stomach. “I thought… I thought I was ready,” he said. He shook his head, his lips pursed. “I was wrong. It has--”

“--Been a long time,” she said and winced. That sounded more bitter than she intended.

He fell silent, his hand stiff against her bare midriff. “Ir abelas, vhenan.”

She sighed, an effort to expel the heat that had gathered in her core, but there was no relief. So, she laced her fingers through his and gave him a tender smile.

“Tel’abelas, Solas. I don’t want to rush you.”

He searched her face, then nodded. “Thank you.” He looked around the meadow for a moment, then looked her over one last time. His eyes lingered over her stomach, her chest, and then her face. “Perhaps it’s best if we…”

“Yeah,” she said. “Probably.”

The dream didn’t melt, didn’t fade. One moment they were in the meadow, the next she opened her eyes to find the pre-dawn light and the familiar chill of her quarters. She was alone, cold, and frustrated. And she knew he felt the same way, alone in his room overlooking the garden.

What a terrible thing, she thought, to suffer together and yet be so far apart.


	25. Indulgence

Riallan stood in the gardens of the Winter Palace, trying to decide if she would rather vomit on the rhododendrons, or punch the nearest Orlesian in the face.

“Do try to look less murderous, my dear,” Dorian said from beside her. “You might not notice, but behind those hideous masks, you’ve frightened every noble in attendance.”

“Good,” she growled. “They should be afraid of me.”

He patted her shoulder. “Well, I do love a good political suicide. Let me know if you want any pointers.” He shot her a salacious grin, and then moved off to mingle with the gossiping Orlesians. She watched as women tittered and men scowled at the mage. They were curious about him; it was so rare to have a Tevinter at the palace. He was a novelty, something dangerous and exotic.

She was just a rabbit. And a savage one at that.

“He has a point,” Solas said from behind her. That would be his place this evening, and she hated it. She knew he was just playing his role as her ‘serving man’, a title she had staunchly refused when Josephine had proposed it. He had overruled her.

She turned her face just enough to meet his eye. “Ame tel’nuvena’ea min’an.” Not like this, not in some shem dress playing some stupid shem game. She wanted to burn the palace to the ground and take back what had been stolen from her people. This was Halam’shiral. It was supposed to be the end of their journey, the start of the elves’ new sovereignty. Instead it was a monument to some shemlen empire that built itself on the backs of her people.

“I know, vhenan,” he said. His voice was low, and the tenderness in it soothed her. “You are right to crave justice. And the surest way to attain it is to defeat the Orlesians at their own Game.”

She nearly groaned, though remembered not to at the last minute. He was right of course. She and Josephine had trained for weeks for this event, teaching her to carry conversations in lilting, cyclical patterns, never providing a straight answer. It was exhausting, but she had to admit she found the challenge satisfying.

And she had proved a quick study.

The harder lessons had been the dancing. Shemlen dances were so… boring. Every move was calculated, adhered to some rule. There was no carefree lifting of the spirit, no joyous leaps or claps, no pounding feet to the rhythm. Just lifeless twirls and limp hands touching across great distances. She was not looking forward to that aspect of the evening.

“Show them you are a woman to be feared,” he whispered, suddenly so close she felt the heat of his breath at her ear. “Find me later.”

And then he moved on, walking by as if they hadn’t spoken at all. She watched him go, so tall and upright in that ridiculous red suit coat, and though the humans were oblivious due to the shape of his ears, she saw the threat in his walk. In the way his hips moved as he wove between shem after shem too careless to see him. But it didn’t matter, the message wasn’t for them.

It was for her.

It had been a foolish risk, but the Orlesians were too self-involved to notice the whispered pause at her ear. If it hadn’t been for the ridiculous coat and sash, none of the party guests would look at him at all. He would have preferred it that way.

He had business that evening.

Once the Inquisition had been formally announced, he removed the hat Josephine had insisted on, then found a quiet alcove where he undid his sash and turned his jacket inside out. Without the glaring red fabric he had a better chance to walk through the palace unnoticed.

The Winter Palace was a lovely enough building, and the rumors he heard as he paced through the halls were delightful. He was certain Lady Nightingale would appreciate anything he could share, even if many of the names were meaningless to him.

Though he was an elf, and no human seemed to note the differences in his appearance from the other servants, the city elves knew he was not one of them. They kept their distance and cast distrustful, yet curious glances. They could not fathom what he truly was. To them his people were little better than a myth. A legend of a time when the elves had been the dominant race in Thedas, a fairy tale to tell sleepy children. But there were a few who knew him for who he was.

Of course he had his own agents within the palace. Not many, only two were working the ball, but it was enough to leave a door open here, ensure a window was unlocked there. It took less than fifteen minutes for him to leave the main party, duck through the servants’ quarters, and then climb a trellis to a second floor balcony. Once on the second level he found the third door on the right unlocked.

Within was what he’d searched for since he awoke from uthenera. An eluvian leaned in a corner of the room, a sheet thrown over it haphazardly, so that only a portion of the glass was covered.

Even without approaching it, he felt its power. The gentle thrum of magic called to him, as if it wanted him to touch it. Of all of the ancient artifacts left from Elvhenan, the eluvians remained the most intact. Though many of them were dormant or destroyed, those that were whole functioned no differently than they had before he’d raised the veil.

It was miraculous, and incredibly fortuitous for him.

He stepped up to the mirror and pressed his palm to the glass. Instantly the magic reacted, the glass liquifying under his touch and roiling with power. He focused, listening to the hum of energy and channeling his will into the mirror. He did not think Briala would come up with a strong enough password for the mirror to prevent him from overriding it, but he was weaker than he had ever been before.

He stood there with his eyes closed, nudging the magic of the eluvian, for much longer than he would have liked. But when the mirror flashed a bright blue in answer to his call, he grinned. Then he heard the echo of Briala’s password in the mirror’s power and laughed.

A blessing indeed.

After asserting his control over the eluvian once more, it was a simple thing to rejoin the party at large. Don the foolish cap, turn the coat right side out, and find a nice, inconspicuous spot from which to enjoy the festivities. By the time Riallan found him leaning against a statue with a view to the courtyard, he was on his third glass of wine and had just eaten a delicious little frosted cake.

Needless to say, he was in high spirits.

“There you are,” she said as she joined him. She was resplendent in a gown of gauzy white and sea-foam green, with silver beadwork on the bodice. What little there was of it. Unlike many of the gowns in the palace tonight, this one was cinched at her waist, but left loose to flow about her legs like fog. It made it seem as if she were gliding everywhere she stepped. The plunging neckline and high slit at her left thigh gave daring glimpses of her figure, glimpses he was all too happy to appreciate.

Judging by her blush, his attentions had not gone unnoticed. “I hope you’re being treated well,” she said. A servant with a tray of wine glasses went by, and he snagged one for her before the elf vanished down the hall.

“Reasonably,” he said and handed it to her. “The nobles ignore me, though I notice their curious glances. And the servants seem happy enough to fill my glass.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “Solas, are you drunk?”

He snorted. “Hardly.” Then he considered it. “Maybe a little.” A slow grin claimed his lips and he let his eyes linger over her. He waited until she took a sip of wine to say, “I do adore the blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events.”

Riallan choked into her wine, a sound startling enough that several pairs of eyes turned to look at her. And while she was the Inquisitor and a source of curiosity for the Orlesians, she was speaking to her ‘elven serving man’; surely nothing interesting could happen between them.

It was a sort of dare. How close could he get, how salacious his looks, before the humans caught on? Before rumors started in earnest? On another day he would have avoided such complications, but tonight, after his success and his indulgence?

What was one more?

He was gratified when Riallan recovered, took another sip of wine, and smirked at him. “Been to many such events, have you?”

He was lucky, and he knew it. She trusted him, believed all his tales of adventures in the Fade. And while not wholly untrue, it wasn’t quite the truth either. And yet the excuse poured from him as if by second nature. “In the Fade I have had many opportunities to witness such splendors. Throughout time the powerful remain the same, only the costumes change.”

The bell rang, calling the attendees back to the main ballroom. She looked over her shoulder, and then back to him. “Do you have any interest in dancing?”

“A great deal,” he said. Then, because he knew he ought to, added, “but dancing with the elven apostate would grant you few favors with the court.”

She rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine. She seemed hesitant to leave him, as if being close to him anchored her in the sea of masks and lies. It made his heart ache in his chest, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to dance with her in front of each and every human there.

“Perhaps once our business here is done?”

She smiled at him, a slow secret thing that promised something much more tantalizing than a simple dance. “I’d like that,” she said, and then turned away to march back up the stairs and to the ballroom.

He did not bother hiding his interest in her retreating figure. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his eyes off of her even if he tried.

Riallan was pretty sure there was blood on her dress. She had tried to keep from making a mess, but the evening had other plans. She leaned against the balcony railing, taking solace in the solitude, and downed another glass of wine to settle her nerves.

She had done it. She had outed Florianne in front of the entire court. She had forced Celene, Gaspard, and Briala to work together. And she had uncovered that no one in this whole Void-damned country was truly innocent. Each noble she’d met, even the Elven Ambassador, had done terrible things in the pursuit of power.

And now the question must be asked, was she doomed to become one of them?

She almost had that night. It would have been so easy just to let Celene die and clean up the mess after the fact. She had almost agreed to the plan. It was Briala’s deceptions that changed her mind. Not because she particularly thought that Celene deserved to be saved, but because she didn’t think her other options were truly any better.

Maybe all together, they would cancel each other out.

Music came through the door behind her as it opened. The silence of the footsteps on the marble gave him away. She smiled at Solas as he joined her at the railing.

“I thought I might find you out here.” He had that silly hat on again, and she couldn’t help but laugh. She snatched it off his head and threw it off the balcony. Let someone find it in the gardens tomorrow morning and they could speculate what had happened. Something untoward no doubt.

“Good riddance,” she said.

He laughed, and it was the open, free sound like when he was in the Fade. “I doubt Lady Montilyet will agree.”

“You let me deal with Josephine.”

His chuckle faded as he watched her, and then concern tinged his expression. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes, just tired. It was a very long, very trying day.” Well, night. It had been daylight when they arrived at the palace, and now the sun tinged the sky, promising a new day.

“You did well,” he told her. “I suspect very few would be able to convince these three to work together.”

“I’m not convinced it will work, but it’s enough for now. Orlais is stable. Corypheus will not gain traction here.”

His hand reached out to rest on her ribcage. The gown left her sides and back mostly exposed, and the warmth of his palm on her skin set her blood alight. “Come,” he said. “Dance with me, before the band stops playing.”

She let out a huff, part laughter, part exhaustion, but said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He swept her into the middle of the balcony, her gown swishing across the stone, and for a moment she felt as if only his hand on her low back kept her from floating away.

He spun her in slow circles, his posture formal and upright, his arm held high as he led her along with the lilting strings from inside the ballroom. She hadn’t expected such practiced ease, and at first she was disappointed. She didn’t want to dance another stiff and cold shem dance, but as he spun and twirled, his hand firm on her back, she finally understood the appeal.

It felt like flying. Her feet moved but she didn’t know how, she just followed him, went where he guided. It was a complete surrender, an act of trust that made her head spin and her heart soar. The song faded away, but he didn’t let go of her. Instead he pulled her close, his arms around her waist and swayed with her, dancing lazy circles on the balcony.

Riallan draped her arms around his neck and lay her head against his chest. She was tired, physically and emotionally, and in this tender moment she wasn’t sure what feeling would win out. As the weight of the evening crashed down from her shoulders, she took in a shuddering breath, battling senseless tears. Solas ran a hand up and down her spine and hummed one of Maryden’s slower songs, soothing her.

The moment overwhelmed her, and there was only one thing to do. She took his face in both hands and kissed him, hard. She didn’t have words for him, at least not any that could do all her feelings justice. So she poured it all into him the only way she knew how.

Solas accepted her every confession, his lips and tongue moving with hers just as easily as he’d led her through their dance. She lost herself in the heat of his mouth, in the wine-sweet taste of him, and the press of his arms around her.

They’d stopped dancing, and her nails scraped at the back of his head. His hands began to wander, his fingers exploring all the skin the dress left bare, until they were both gasping.

The music was louder for a moment, but Riallan didn’t think much about it. At least, not until she heard Dorian’s voice.

“I thought I’d find— vishante kaffas!”

She pulled away from Solas, both of them staring at the door to the ballroom. Dorian stood there, a wine glass in each hand, and a horrified expression on his face. He looked from her to Solas, then back again. His mouth opened, closed, opened again, and then, “ah… I’m interrupting. Obviously.” He cleared his throat. “I was going to suggest we celebrate,” he lifted the wine glasses as evidence, “but it seems you already are.” He shot Riallan a glare that said she would have to tell him everything. Soon. Then he stepped back into the ballroom, taking both glasses with him.

Riallan looked at Solas and burst out laughing. For once his cheeks were just as pink as hers, and the sticky gloss Josephine had insisted she wear glistened on, and around, his mouth.

He gave her a half-hearted glare and wiped at his mouth. He pulled a face at the gloss on his fingers. “So much for keeping this secret,” he said.

That only made her laugh more, and he couldn’t keep from smiling at the sound. She pulled him back to her, shared another, brief kiss, and sighed as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Can we go home now?” She asked, but a yawn interrupted the words.

“I think that’s reasonable,” he murmured into her hair. But already his heartbeat at her ear was lulling her into the Fade. “Come, vhenan,” he said. “Before we cause another scene.”

She hummed, but stepped away from him. “I still think these humans could use a proper, elven scandal.”

His laughter followed her back into the palace, warming her when the marble walls left her cold.


	26. The Morning After

The sudden flash of sunlight on her eyelids made Riallan groan.

“Ah, yes, my dulcet darling,” said Dorian, entirely too loud. “Rise and shine. I’ve brought you breakfast, though it’s well past the hour.”

She sat up, her nose scrunched and eyes blinking against the sun. “Dorian? What are you--”

He sat at the little table next to the windows, the gauzy drapes thrown wide to let in the light and show off the Orlesian countryside. The de Chalons manor was exquisite in its expensive austerity, and though the room felt almost as barren as her quarters back in Skyhold, she had to admit the bed was comfy.

Dorian glared at her, arms crossed and one leg hanging over his knee. His foot bounced with either agitation or anticipation, she couldn’t quite tell. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me,” he said. 

She scrubbed her hands over her face. “Is that what this is about?”

“Obviously.” He gave a pointed look at the chair across from him. “Now, will you join me for a, albeit late, breakfast?”

It seemed she had little choice in the matter, and besides, the coffee and jam on the platter smelled lovely.She stood from the bed and stretched, uncaring that she wore only her small clothes, then pulled on a large linen tunic. It was worn, one of her favorites, and hung down to her mid-thigh.

Dorian gave her a critical look as she joined him at the table. “Is that one of his shirts?”

She rolled her eyes. “No. I’ve had this for years.” She poured a cup of coffee and spread jam on a delicate little biscuit. She even managed to take a bite before Dorian’s impatient silence became deafening.

She sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.” He took a strand of grapes and plucked them from the vine one by one. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“The beginning…” When even was that? She’d had feelings for Solas before they’d started visiting one another in the Fade. So, maybe the beginning was when he started showing an interest. But he’d flirted with her in Haven, commented on her indomitable focus and made the tips of her ears burn with the force of her blush.

“That long ago, was it?”

“No. I mean, yes?” She shrugged. “We just sort of fell into it.”

“You fell into tangling tongues in the Winter Palace?”

She glared at him. “No. That was very much on purpose.” She took another bite of her biscuit and used it as an excuse to find something to say. “We always got along. We flirted, talked, he was someone I trusted.”

“A confidant.”

Riallan nodded. “Exactly. It wasn’t until we got to Skyhold that we kissed.” She left out that it had happened in the Fade. She didn’t really want to discuss the details of that. “But then he asked for time.”

“Time for what?” Dorian sipped his coffee, careful not to splash any on his mustache.

“I think he’s been alone for a really long time and he needed to think about whether or not he wanted a relationship.”

“Well he obviously made up his mind,” he said with a wicked little smile.

“Yeah. After two months.”

Dorian dropped his biscuit, it fell against the porcelain plate with a heavy thunk. “Two months?”

She nodded.

“And you didn’t come talk to me?”

She hadn’t even considered it. “What was there to talk about? We kissed, it was good, I wanted more but he wasn’t sure. Until he made up his mind, there wasn’t anything to say.”

He gave her a bewildered look. “Do the Dalish not gossip?”

“Of course we do,” she laughed. “But, we’re both private people. He had doubts, which for Solas is a big deal. I wasn’t going to betray his trust by talking about it with someone.”

“Maker, I forget what a good person you are sometimes.” He took a bite of hs biscuit and moaned. “This country might be full of backstabbing assholes, but kaffas, the food is good!”

They laughed at that, and she took advantage of the break in their conversation to eat a few grapes and a slice of cheese.

“So… he made up his mind?”

“Obviously,” she said, smiling when he rolled her eyes.

“You’re going to make me drag it out of you, aren’t you?”

She sipped her coffee. “I know how much you like interrogating your friends.”

He grinned. “How long have you been together?”

She had to think about it. “Just over a month.”

His eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “And no one knows?”

She tilted her head back and forth. “I think Varric suspects, but we haven’t told anyone.” She gave him a stern look. “We’d like to keep it that way.”

“Probably shouldn’t makeout in public spaces, then.” He took a drink of his coffee, his face suddenly serious. “You know you can tell me things, right?”

“Dorian, I—”

“It’s just, you’re my best friend. Possibly my only friend. I know I’m not good at,” he waved the fingers of one hand, “emotions, but I am here for you when you need me.”

She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “I know, Dorian. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to cut you out.”

“All right, then.” He settled back into his chair, doing a little shoulder shimmy to get comfortable. “Tell me, under that stoic, apostate hobo appearance, is there a fiery passion?”

“Dorian!”

“That’s a yes, then?”

She laughed. “You’re disgusting.”

“That Dalish accent is so cute, you pronounced hilarious wrong. Now answer the question!” His smile was infectious, even if the subject matter embarrassed her to speak of.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“You don’t know?”

Riallan looked down into her mug. “We haven’t… you know.” She cleared her throat. “We’re taking it slow.”

“What I saw last night did not look ‘slow’.” He spread jam on two more biscuits and handed one to her.

“Yes. It was new territory for us. Thank you so much for interrupting.” She glared at him, then popped a grape into her mouth.

“Ah. So he’s taking it slow, while you slowly go insane.” He smirked.

“No,” she lied. “I’m respecting his boundaries, just like I would expect him to respect mine.”

Dorian raised a brow at her. “You have boundaries?”

She feigned offense, a hand to her chest. “A few!” Riallan might blush and stumble over her words in social situations, but once she connected with someone, that anxiety fell away. She wasn’t shy about her preferences when it came to sharing a bed, just shy getting someone to come to bed with her in the first place.

“What do you think is holding him back?”

She had no idea how to answer that question. There was so much about Solas she didn’t know. She knew the important things, the things that made up a person. She knew he was kind, intelligent, artistic, and passionate. She knew he cared about her, more than she had ever dared hope for, and she knew he could be tender and terrifying in turns. She’d heard his laughter and witnessed his grief, and she’d shared the times in between.

But she didn’t know the facts of the man. He was so good at avoiding the details of his life, glossing over them with stories of the Fade and vague responses to any pointed questions. She didn’t know where he was really from, when he was born, Creators she didn’t even know how old he was! And all of that suggested something traumatic he wanted to escape.

“I think it has to be something from his past,” she said. “Even with me he hesitates to give any concrete details about his life before the Inquisition.”

“That doesn’t bother you?” Dorian said it in a way that made it clear that it would very much bother him.

She thought about it, but ultimately shrugged. “No? We all have pasts, we have things we regret or are ashamed of. I know I like the person here, now.” She smiled, but fought the urge to look away. “And I do like him, a lot.”

“Oh, that is a dangerous look, dearest.” He dabbed at his mouth with the cloth napkin. “Poor Blackwall’s going to be devastated.”

She winced. Riallan knew the Warden had an interest in her, and while she appreciated the man as a friend and fighter, she didn’t have any feelings for him in that way. “Blackwall suffers from an ill-placed sense of hero worship,” she said. “He’ll recover. Besides,” she gave Dorian the sternest look she could muster. “He’s not going to know, because no one is going to tell him. Or anyone else for that matter.”

“Oh, please.” He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to threaten me.”

She blinked. “I don’t?”

“Maker, no!” The grin he gave her then was positively wicked. “The longer I keep this secret, the longer I get to tease Solas with no one the wiser.” He raised his mug in salute to her. “It might as well be Satinalia!”

She groaned, but it turned into a chuckle halfway through. She had to admit, the potential comedy might be worth Solas’ slight discomfort. She was about to say as much when a knock came at the door.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine called. “We are preparing to leave shortly. Do you require assistance?”

Dorian snorted and tossed his napkin onto the table. “That’s my cue.” He stood from the table and paused to kiss Riallan on the forehead. “Well, I suppose I’m happy for you. Just, guard that heart a little, will you? I don’t want to have to curse our resident Fade expert.”

She laughed and shooed him out of the room. She couldn’t wait to get back to Skyhold and have some proper privacy. And if last night’s indulgence was any indication, maybe she’d be able to convince Solas to join her.

And this time not just in her dreams.


	27. Love Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt fill for #14DaysofDALovers on tumblr. If you're following me there, then you've probably already seen this. If not, then enjoy!

This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, not some lovestruck teenager. The idea of her… well, whatever Solas was to her, coming to her quarters shouldn’t make her stomach all aflutter. And yet, here she was, nervously fawning over her room to make sure it was clean and tidy before he saw it.

Even though they were just going to make a mess of it anyway.

The knock on her bedroom door startled Riallan, and she had to remind herself not to skip down the stairs. She opened the door to reveal Solas in his leggings and the sleeveless undershirt he wore beneath his tunic. His arms were full of paint supplies.

“Oh!” She said. “Let me help you.” She took a handful of brushes and a jar of paint as she held the door for him.

“Thank you, Ria.”

She climbed the stairs after him, nearly colliding with him as he’d paused at the top. He stared at the bare expanse of stone over her canopy bed.

He glanced down at her. “You’re right. It needs a mural.” He continued into her room, depositing the paints on her desk. “The question is, what would you like?”

She’d thought a lot about what should decorate her quarters. All over Skyhold Dalish banners and flags proclaimed her allegiance, her origins, and hopefully her future. The throne told of her power, a reminder of the magic that coursed through he veins. But nothing spoke of who she was in this moment. Of the world as she saw it each morning. Of who she’d become.

Inquisitor.

“I have an idea,” she said and led him to the hidden ladder that led up to the little alcove above her bed. It took a couple trips to get all their supplies up there, but once they did she told him her plan and he smiled.

“Perfect.” He opened a jar full of black paint, the smell sharp and acrid. Nothing like the bright, clean scent of plaster in the rotunda. “A simpler design is best for learning.”

He handed her a thick brush, and suddenly she was so nervous. She didn’t know how to paint, and her drawings as a child were crude, even if Deshanna loved them. She was not an artist, but Solas was. She would only mess up whatever beautiful thing he set out to create.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, the brush hanging in the air between them.

“I know, vhenan.” He smiled. “That’s why I am going to teach you.” He picked out a similar brush and dipped it in the paint, slowly scraping the excess off on the edges of the jar.

“What if I’m bad at it?”

He snorted. “You will be,” he said. “All beginners are. That is the nature of art.” He settled his gaze on her, and Riallan felt flushed and soothed all at once. “All that matters, if you truly wish to create, is that you do not give up.”

“Well, I’m nothing if not stubborn,” she said, and dipped her brush into the black paint.

“So I noticed.” He smirked and put his brush to the stone.

Riallan watched him, analyzed the motion of his wrist and how his fingers cradled the brush. He went slow, conscious of her eyes on him, but kept his eyes on his work as she struggled to imitate him. How did he hold the brush so easily? It was as if it was all his hands had ever known, the tool a natural extension of his arm. His strokes were bold and confident, easy and assured. She would never be able to emulate his broad swathes of color.

But once she pressed bristles to stone all her anxiety melted away. The scratch of the horse hair on the stone, the way it vibrated up through her fingers, was so satisfying. It focused her mind and fascinated her attention as her ever-seeking curiosity catalogued the new information.

“Good, vhenan,” Solas said. He leaned closer to her, his hand taking hers and guiding it up the wall in a long stroke. “Like this.” His breath on her neck made her shiver and they both went still.

A moment, a heartbeat, a breath. The pause felt longer, but Solas didn’t move, didn’t release her hand.

“You’re blushing,” he said.

Which of course only made her blush worse. She’d made no secret of her desire for him; she was ready whenever he decided he was. But the waiting was slowly killing her. And now he was in her quarters, his hand warm on hers, his breath on her neck and a flash of heat ignited deep in her belly. All she could think of was that her bed was so close.

She cleared her throat. “You were saying?”

He gave her a knowing smile, but said nothing more about her obvious state. Solas showed her a few different techniques, his chest pressed to her back as he guided her hand. And then his mouth pressed to her neck.

Riallan stiffened against him before tilting her head back to rest on his shoulder. She bit her lip and tried to stifle the moan building low in her throat. Perhaps if she was quiet he wouldn’t think to stop.

“You’re making a mess, vhenan,” he said, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just behind her ear.

Sure enough, the brush dangled from her fingers, black paint dripping onto the floor of the loft. His chuckle in her ear ignited something in her, something frustrated and playful and daring. Before she could overthink it, or talk herself out of it, Riallan took the brush and pushed it into his face, leaving a black streak of paint down his cheek.

Solas blinked at her, stunned. She laughed but the sound trailed off when she saw the mischievous glint in his eyes.

She brandished her brush in defense. “Don’t.”

He dipped two fingers into the jar of black paint as a slow grin claimed his face. He was suddenly predatory, his eyes consuming her every move with the heat of his gaze. She was riveted by the sight of him, playful and yet so hungry for her.

It made her an easy target.

She shrieked as cold paint flicked onto her face and he laughed, a rich sound she still marveled at. His laughter was so rare, she cherished every instance.

And so the game was on, and they smeared paint over the floor, wall, and each other until they laughed and shouted themselves breathless. Until she’d thrown herself at him and proclaimed herself the winner because she ended up on top.

Solas cupped her face in both hands, the black paint everywhere, and kissed her.

“So much for the mural,” she said when they broke apart.

He glanced at the wall, then looked back at her, his thumb tracing her lip. “We will simply have to work on it another day.”

She hummed her approval of the idea as she dipped down to kiss him again. She was happy for any excuse to bring him to her room, even one so flimsy as painting a mural.

Though, explaining the mess would be difficult. But that was a worry for later. For now she would happily be distracted by his kisses.


	28. Where Pride Resides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a small note, this one is NSFW. Enjoy ;)

Solasan, his oldest temple. He was not surprised to find it still stood, however, he was surprised to find it at the heart of a seemingly endless desert. That had not been the case when it was built. Once Solasan had been a place of rest, the only structure in a sea of vast, grass-covered plains, the destination on a long pilgrimage for many elvhen. A place of peace and blessing, for personal reflection and self-discovery.

It had been his first sanctuary, when he had just ascended to what had been deemed godhood, when he was simply Solas. Before the power and greed had cloyed at him, like an irresistible perfume drawing him to a lover’s bed. Before he fell into the same corrupted state of mind that claimed all the Evanuris.

Before there was ever Fen’Harel.

As Riallan sacrificed the shards to the first door, he was grateful there were no wolf statues within this temple. Even the architecture gave away little of the temple’s origins. There were no pointed arches, no stained glass or glittering mosaics. Solasan was old enough to predate the architecture that would come to represent Elvhenan, old enough to reflect his purest self, when Mythal had first called to him and asked him to join her in physical existence.

They walked into the temple, and Solas watched Riallan closely. Her eyes filled with wonder as they darted every which way, trying to take in every detail.

“What is this place?” She asked, though the words weren’t for any of her companions in particular.

“Quiet, soft and seeking,” Cole said. “Safe and searching, self.” He blinked, looked at Solas, and said, “Solasan.”

Riallan’s head tilted, and Solas’ gut clenched. A playful smile curled her lips. “Solasan? Any connection?” She asked him.

He snorted and shook his head, all while fear climbed up his spine in a frigid wave. He returned her smile. “It is not an uncommon word, vhenan.”

“What does it mean?” Cassandra asked.

“Pride,” Riallan said.

“Solasan is the place where pride resides,” he said.

Cassandra made a small, understanding noise, and then Riallan was off, exploring more of the temple. He watched her as she moved through his most ancient sanctuary, an unexpected warmth blossoming in his chest. She ran her fingertips along the cold walls, her curiosity and joy at the discovery apparent in her every motion.

He longed to tell her more about this place, about what it once meant to him. What it meant to him now that she was there, roaming its halls.

“She would like that,” Cole said. His words were barely more than a whisper, but in the echoing quiet of the temple, he might as well have shouted them.

Riallan turned to look at them. “Who would like what?”

Solas blushed, and he did nothing to disguise his embarrassment. “Cole,” he said. “Those thoughts are private.”

Cassandra gasped so hard she choked and spluttered, while Riallan’s face burned crimson in the veilfire glow. Her pupils were already blown wide in the dim light of Solasan, but he saw the flash of desire in them and in the way she bit her lip.

He steeled himself against that gaze. Better she think he fantasized about her than suspect he had a greater connection to this place than he cared to admit. Besides, it wasn’t as if he did not think about her, and often, he just hadn’t been doing so when Cole spoke his thoughts.

An awkward silence fell over the party after that, and they explored the temple as far as they could before Riallan ran out of shards.

She stood before the spirit door and sighed. “Well, I guess we’ll be coming back to the Forbidden Oasis.” She turned to face them and rubbed her arms. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “After all that sunshine, it’s freezing in here.”

They returned to camp and though the route was largely shaded by the canyon walls, the sweltering heat of the desert had brought a sheen to all their faces by the time they saw the canvas tents.

Well, all of them save for Cole. Though the spirit resided in a body, it did not seem to function as a normal living person would. Cole did not require sustenance or sleep, and it seemed he did not sweat either. At the moment it was something Solas was envious of.

Arlathan had been a warm city, far to the north, and largely tropical. It was humid and hot, but it had been home. When in Skyhold he missed that heat, the warmth that seemed to hold him, enveloped in a comforting embrace. But the heat in the desert was nothing like Arlathan. It was dry, claiming the air from his lungs and the moisture from his lips as if it were simply its due.

Riallan had ducked into a tent almost immediately, and when she reappeared she had stripped the outer layer of her Keeper’s Robes, and now wore only the leggings and the sleeveless, high-necked shirt.

It took a great effort not to stare at her bare shoulders, and even greater effort not to reach out and touch them.

“I’m going to head down to the oasis, if anyone wants to join me?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I must clean my armor.” She curled her lip. “There is sand everywhere.”

Riallan laughed. “Fair enough.” She turned bright green eyes on him. “Solas?”

He saw the hope and anticipation on her face. Saw that she wanted him to come with her, especially now that Cassandra wouldn’t be there. He knew he should decline, that he shouldn’t encourage this newfound physicality of their relationship. Ever since the Winter Palace, Riallan’s looks lingered just a little too long. Her casual touches suddenly bore a weight that sent his heart thundering in his chest.

He should tell her no, but he thought of her in the cool water of the oasis, the sun warming her pale skin, flushing the faint red freckles on her cheeks and shoulders, and found he couldn’t find the words.

“That sounds lovely,” he said instead, and followed her away from camp.

Once they were out of sight of their companions, she took his hand in hers and smiled at him. There was a tinge of pink on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose that, for once, had nothing to do with her feelings. The sun was relentless and it was especially so for her pale skin. But she didn’t seem to mind.

They walked in comfortable silence until they reached the waterfall. Then she let go of his hand and her fingers found the hem of her shirt. She pulled it over her head without hesitation, baring her smooth skin to him. Her leggings followed, so that she stood before him in just her breast band and small clothes.

Just like in the last dream they shared.

Heat pooled low in his belly at the memory of his hands on her skin, of the heat of her pressed against him. He stood transfixed as she waded into the water, the roar of blood in his ears louder even than the waterfall.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “Are you coming in?”

The invitation shook him from his stupor. He pulled off his necklace, tunic, and the long-sleeve shirt he wore beneath it. Then he undid his foot wraps, but he left his knee-length leggings in place. It wasn’t much defense, but it was better than the alternative. Then he followed her into the water.

He was surprised at how cold it was, but he was grateful for it. He needed to keep a clear head, and Riallan mostly naked before him made that difficult. Her vallaslin was just as it had been in their dream. It trailed in thin, bright green lines down her throat, through the valley of her breasts and across the soft planes of her stomach. Beneath her navel it branched off to trail down her legs where they stopped to circle her ankles. Her arms, shoulders, and back were all blissfully bare of the markings.

“I missed the warmth,” she said. She stood thigh deep in the water, her face turned up to the sun and her eyes closed. “Though, it never gets this hot in Wycome.”

He drew even with her, uncaring that his pants got wet. He needed to touch her, needed to feel the soft warmth of her skin against his. She had awakened something in him he’d thought laid dormant so long it could never return. But ever since that first kiss in the Fade he’d desired her more than anything.

It was an exquisite torture, because he knew he could never succumb to that desire.

And yet, his fingers brushed up her arm, across her shoulder, and to the back of her neck. He pulled her to him, gentle and uncertain. He hated to initiate contact but found time and time again that he could not avoid it.

She didn’t hesitate to step into his space, to follow the guidance of his hand on her neck. She fell into him, her mouth on his before he had time to think about what a mistake he was about to make.

The contrast of cold water against his legs and the heat of her tongue twining with his was a pleasure so intense that he moaned into her mouth. Riallan shuddered against him, and her hands began to wander. It wasn’t until her fingers roamed his chest, his stomach, his back, that he realized she had never seen him shirtless before. He had been so careful, even in the Fade, to avoid baring himself to her.

Yet another wall he so carefully constructed came tumbling down in the shadow of his own temple. The closest thing he had to home, even if she didn’t know it.

Her touch on his skin lit a flame in his blood. As if of their own volition, his hands explored every inch of her, until his fingertips teased at the edges of her smalls. She broke their kiss with a gasp so deep he blinked.

“Too much?” His voice was rough with desire, a low whisper against her jaw.

“Creators, no, Solas.” She took his face in both hands and looked him in the eye. “I promised to be patient. I will wait for you to find your feet in this.” Her pupils flashed dark and wide when she glanced at his mouth. “But I’ll also take whatever you’ll give me.”

He chuckled at that. It seemed he was not the only one driven to madness these past months. He searched her face while he considered what he should do. He knew what he wanted to do, what his body and heart craved more than anything else these past few weeks. But he could not do that to her.

But the desire to see her face twisted with pleasure so sweet it looked like suffering, to hear her cries echo off the canyon walls as he brought her the relief she so desperately sought…

“Come,” he said and took her hand. They waded through the water until they reached the waterfall. It wasn’t quite the same as it had been when Solasan was built, erosion over the years had changed much, but the little alcove behind the waterfall was still there.

He pulled her in behind him, braced himself against the wall, and then pressed her back to his chest. She whimpered at the feel of him against her, then her breath hitched when his arm snaked under hers to climb her chest and wrap his fingers around her throat. His touch was gentle, but firm, more to keep her in place against him than to quiet her.

That’s what the waterfall was for.

His other hand brushed down her stomach, further and further until it was beneath her smalls and she bucked against his touch.

Riallan gasped, his name falling from her lips in relief. He groaned at the feel of her, the earthy smell of her need mingling with the crisp scent of the water. He could not remember the last time someone had consumed him so completely. He’d had other lovers, of course. He had been revered as a god once, there had been no shortage of women or men if he so desired.

But that had been before. Before he’d seen the carnage the Evanuris waged on their own people. Before he’d realized how far he’d fallen from the spirit he’d once been. How corrupted by power and greed.

Riallan moaned, a trembling sound from deep in her throat. Her lip was caught in her teeth, her head thrown back to rest against his shoulder. Dark brows pulled low over her closed eyes.

She was absolutely stunning.

In all his years, there had never been someone like her. Someone who desired him purely for who he was and not what he could offer them. She knew nothing of who he had been, what power awaited him. She knew only the lonely scholar, the wandering soul he’d always been.

And she gave herself to him so completely it was intoxicating. He was desperate for her affection, her favor. Her desire. He had awoken in a world bleached of all beauty, the magic and awe blockaded away behind a wall of his own making, until he saw her. Until vibrant green eyes looked into his and flooded his world with color once more.

Flooded him with life.

Solas pressed his mouth to her neck, tasted the sun on her skin, the salt of her sweat, and felt grounded to the world in a way he never had. She anchored him, rooted him to this world with her laughter and smiles. Consumed him with her gasps and sighs, electrified him as she called out his name, the sound echoing in the little cavern as she shook against him.

He held her, cradled in his arms when she sagged against him, her legs suddenly weak. She panted, her head still against his shoulder, and he chuckled in the crook of her neck.

“Is that better, vhenan?”

She hummed and nodded her head, her eyelids fluttering and a tiny smile on her lips. Then her hand roamed until she found him, hard and pressed against the small of her back.

Solas froze at her touch, his breath catching in his throat. “Ria.” Her name was a moan as she ran her hand over him. For a moment, for a blissful second of weakness, he let her explore his body and took what pleasure she would give him. But as the heat in his veins reached a boiling point he grabbed her wrist. “Venavis,” he breathed against her neck.

She stilled, but didn’t release him. She waited, her breaths coming fast and shallow, and then he heard her swallow. “Too much?” She asked.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath and nodded.

Instantly her hand was gone from him, and instantly he regretted the loss. Even as he knew stopping her was the right thing to do, he wanted nothing more than to take her hand and let her finish what she’d started.

“Solas?” She asked after a moment. She’d turned to face him, concern in her green eyes.

“I merely need a moment,” he said. The strain in his voice spoke more of his state than his words. Riallan cupped his face in one hand, and he turned his face to kiss her palm. In that moment his heart bloomed with a warmth that still took his breath away, no matter how many times he felt it. No matter how heavy his heart became.

He couldn’t bear to look into her eyes any longer. Each moment he did he could only watch, helpless, as his whole world narrowed into a vibrant, shimmering green. Until he must admit he had found a new home, warmer and more forgiving than any temple.


	29. Shelter

After the heat of the desert, the deep chill of the Emprise du Lion was startling and wholly unwelcome. Not that she had enjoyed the dry heat, but Riallan would rather be too hot than too cold any day. The conditions in the Emprise were dire, with Sahrnia in ruins and half its population stolen by the Red Templars.

Dorian’s incessant complaining did nothing to help the matter.

“Why does anyone live here?” He asked as they trudged up a narrow path, all dark rock on one side and steep drop on the other.

“Presumably, it is not always so cold,” Solas said.

“No,” Cassandra said. “The Emprise is usually quite temperate. Something is very wrong here.”

“Yes, like our being here, for instance.”

Riallan rolled her eyes but kept moving. She hated the cold and her patience was wearing thin. She just wanted to get to a nice spot to make camp and make a fire. Her toes were freezing.

“Solas,” Cassandra said once they’d reached the top of the trail. “You must have tips for keeping warm whilst travelling.”

Solas frowned. “Nothing particularly innovative. Light a fire, take shelter from the elements. Use pelts if they are available.”

“Oh?” The tone of Dorian’s voice made Riallan turn to watch the conversation. “I’d always heard sleeping naked helped.” The suggestion in his voice was obvious enough that Cassandra blushed.

Solas flicked his eyes to Riallan before he levelled a cool gaze at the Tevinter and said, “That is true, but it’s much more effective with a partner.”

A wicked grin flashed across Dorian’s face. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

Solas shook his head. “Nothing recent.”

Dorian glanced at her and his eyes twinkled at the crimson of her blush. “A shame. Perhaps that will change.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but Solas’ expression was perfectly calm, curious even. “Perhaps. Are you offering, Dorian?”

“Oh, ho!” Dorian laughed, the sound bright and pleased. “So there is a sense of humor buried somewhere beneath all that mysterious intrigue.”

The tiniest flicker of a smile graced Solas’ face. “So it would seem.”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Are you quite finished?” She pointed behind them and looked to Riallan. “There appears to be a cavern. Perhaps we could take shelter there.”

She smiled. “Perfect. This way no one will have to sleep naked.”

“And here I thought I had something to look forward to,” Dorian said.

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and marched ahead of their group. Solas followed, his lingering glance on Riallan heavier than usual when he passed her. Dorian drew even with her and smiled.

“You’re insufferable,” she said. “You do know that, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Please, I know you love it. And besides, now you know what he’ll be thinking of all night.”

He walked away, leaving her to glare at his back. They didn’t need Dorian’s help in this regard. Ever since the Forbidden Oasis Riallan had thought of little else, their time in the cave behind the waterfall flashing in a loop in her mind. But she was the Inquisitor and obnoxiously busy. There had been little free time lately, and even less privacy. Her performance at the Winter Palace had made her quite popular with the Orlesian nobility.

As she stepped into the cave and saw how small it was, she knew there would be no relief found in camp that night. The space was smaller than the rotunda, with a low, curved ceiling. There would be just enough room for a small fire at the mouth of the cavern, and their bedrolls laid out in an arc behind it.

Solas rolled out his bedroll beside hers, quite a bit closer than he would normally, and when he caught her watching he smirked. Suddenly she was grateful for the tiny cavern.

It was cramped, but with Solas so close she knew there was no way she would be cold.


	30. Snow

The snowball came out of nowhere, literally. One moment she was sitting beside the fire, warming her hands and enjoying the way the firelight glowed on Solas’ skin while he sketched, and the next there was a puff of powder against the back of her head.

Riallan wiped at her now freezing neck and spun to glare at… no one.

Sera cackled from her spot on a log. “You should’ve seen your face!”

“You are a bad influence on him,” Solas said without looking up from his sketchbook.

Sera stuck her tongue out at him. “Even ghosty boys oughta have a little fun ev’ry now and again.”

Solas looked up. “He is not a ghost—“

“Fine. Spirit. Whatever,” she interrupted. “Point is, he’s here and not _there,_ so he might as well act like it.” She wrinkled her nose. “Unlike some.”

Riallan actually agreed with that. How to treat Cole was one of the few things she and Solas disagreed on. The spirit was more real each and every day, something she was all too happy to help facilitate, while Solas mourned the loss of yet another denizen of the Fade. Not for the first time she wondered what made him cling to the memories of what was so fiercely. What was it about the present that scared him so?

But another snowball hit her in the back and sent those thoughts reeling. She spun to find no hint of the Spirit of Compassion. She reached behind her seat and gathered a clump of soft snow.

“It’s hardly a fair fight when I can’t see my adversary,” she said.

Sera grinned and Solas sighed, returning to his drawing. He fought her less and less about Cole, she hoped because he saw how happy the spirit was in his new life.

Cole appeared behind Solas, the flames lending his pale face a flush of color. “I’m sorry, Ria.” He kept his eyes down, his hands behind his back.

“That’s all right, Cole,” she said. Then she threw her snowball at his face. Or at least she tried to throw the snowball at his face.

Solas blinked in shock, snow dripping down his cheeks and chin. Sera’s laughter rebounded through the tents and into the night sky. Even Cole gave her a tentative grin before flickering away into the dark.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, but she couldn’t bite back the laughter in her voice. He looked miserable, the tips of his ears pink with the sudden cold. He glared at her and in the half-light, she couldn’t tell if he meant it.

“Pffft,” Sera said. “I’m not!”

Solas raised one hand, his eyes never leaving hers, and summoned a perfect snowball to hover above his palm. He smirked as her eyes widened.

“That’s not fair!” She said, but it was too late. The snowball hurtled toward her. She pulled up her barrier just in time for it to explode into white fluff in front of her face, and then the game was on.

Shrieks and laughter filled the camp, Cole blinking in and out of the battle to throw snowballs at whoever was nearest. There were no teams, and yet all of Solas’ snowballs suspiciously veered toward the Inquisitor. That is, until Sera smashed one into his face.

Soon they were all panting by the fire, letting the heat dry them out, and grinning.

“Leave it to mages to ruin a perfectly good snowball fight, bein’ all mage-y.” Sera shook her head, spraying them all with icy water.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Riallan said. She smirked at Solas, then said, “you’ll set a bad example for Cole.”

He rolled his eyes, but slung an arm over her shoulders. His body against hers warmed her more than the fire ever could.

“I don’t mind,” Cole said, his eyes extra bright under the brim of his hat. “I cheated too.” He grinned. “It was fun.”

They all laughed at that, the stress of the day swept away, at least for a little while. With Solas warm beside her, flushed with exertion and smiling, Riallan felt the world distill into this one moment.

Surrounded by friends who’d become more like family, it was the happiest she’d been since leaving her clan. And for once she didn’t long for home. There, by the fire, exhausted and beaming, she realized she’d found a new home.

Complete with magical snowball fights.


	31. The Rumor

Riallan did not want to attend this fete. She’d had enough of Orlesian nobility at the Winter Palace to last her a lifetime. But, Joesphine needed this. If they were going to raise the Du Paraquettes to a noble status, and thus remove the contract on the ambassador’s life, Riallan had to make an appearance.

And this time there was no reason to bring an entourage.

“Are you ready, Inquisitor?” Josephine asked from the seat across from her. They sat in their carriage, which had just stopped in the driveway of the Wiscotte estate. Through the gauzy curtain on the window of the carriage, Riallan saw that it was a large structure, but not half so grand as the Winter Palace had been. Hopefully that meant the evening wouldn’t be as bloodthirsty.

She sighed. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Remember, you must speak with Minister Bellise on behalf of the Du Paraquettes.” She gave Riallan a shy smile. “She is a fan of your work in the Winter Palace. She held no love for Florianne or Gaspard, and appreciates your efforts to bring peace to Orlais. You can use her favor to your advantage.”

“I know, Josie,” she said. “We’ve spent the last two weeks rehearsing the conversation.”

She blushed. “I know. I apologize.” She took a deep breath and nodded once. “You will do fine.”

Riallan smirked. “It’s killing you that you can’t have this conversation yourself, isn’t it.”

“It is torture,” she said, then opened the door.

A string quartet played on the stairs leading up to the front door, each musician playing on a different step. The song was soft and sweeping, the perfect background noise for an informal gathering. Around the garden nobles gathered, still in their masks and finery, but the air wasn’t as tense as it’d been in Halamshiral. The conversations carried fewer whispers and more laughter.

Riallan still hated it. There were a million other things she could be doing. Like reading and drinking wine in the rotunda, watching Solas paint or read, or literally do anything. But Josephine needed her.

It wasn’t until late in the evening, after she’d secured Minister Bellise’s assistance and the wine flowed a little too easily amongst the nobles, that she heard the rumor.

Riallan stood in the salon, Josephine beside her as they spoke with Madame de Vallieux, a lesser noble with a pleasant demeanor and refreshing frankness.

“Why do you suppose the Tevinter lingers with the Inquisition?” A woman asked in the circle of people standing behind Riallan. “As her lover, perhaps?” The circle tittered with graceful laughter.

Riallan smiled and glanced at Josephine. The blush on the ambassador’s face told her she had heard the conversation as well. Dorian would _love_ this newest development.

“Haven’t you heard?” A man said once the group had quieted. “The Herald has already taken a lover.”

Shocked gasps and denials followed, but Riallan just smiled. There were so many rumors about her bedroom habits that she now found them humorous. That one about her and The Iron Bull had been downright salacious! So much so that she’d wondered if he hadn’t started it himself.

“It must be the Commander,” said the first woman. “So dashing and brave. A strong man for a strong woman.”

“Please,” said another. “He is too plain for someone so… exotic.”

Riallan rolled her eyes. When would the Orlesians realize that what classified as exotic depended purely on perception? To her all of Orlais was exotic. 

“If the Commander is plain then the Herald’s tastes are truly banal,” the man said. “It is said that she favors a certain elf within her inner circle.”

Riallan froze, all of her attention on the conversation happening behind her.

“No!”

“The serving man?”

“But, he’s bald,” cried another.As if that was what offended them most, and not his lack of status or the shape of his ears.

“What is his name?” Asked one woman.

“Solan, I think,” said another.

Riallan closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It surprised her that the nobility didn’t know him, that he’d somehow managed to avoid their notice so completely. She envied that, even as she wanted to yell at every noble gathered.

“They say he is a mage,” said the man. “An apostate.” The hushed quality of the man’s voice, the weight with which he said ‘apostate’, and the way those gathered around him murmured made Riallan clench her fists.

Her eyes were still closed, so it wasn’t until she heard Josephine speak that she knew the woman had moved away from her.

“Monsieur Renaud,” she said, her pronunciation perfect. Her voice was clear and loud, drawing the attention of every person in the salon. “I’m sorry to hear that Madame Renaud could not come to the fête; though I’m sure she and Marquis de Bodard are having a lovely time in Rivain.” She let loose a wicked smile. “I hear the beaches are particularly lovely this time of year. “

The salon gasped collectively while the man, Renaud, gaped at Josephine, his mouth flopping like that of a dying fish. Josephine did not stop there, next she set her eyes on one of the women.

“Madame de Rienfort!” She greeted the woman as if they were long lost friends, but the noble only offered the ambassador a reluctant smile. “It has been too long! Tell me of Henri,” she said. Her face was free of any plot, guileless and pure, and yet the noblewoman blanched at the man’s name. Josephine ignored her obvious discomfort. “Last we spoke he was building a lovely maison de campagne for Monsieur Luvert.”

Another gasp tore through the room. Riallan had no idea who any of these people were, or what their relationships were to one another, but she had the distinct impression that Josephine had just socially decimated each of them.

Josephine embraced Madame de Rienfort as if they were old friends. “I would love to see it, I’m sure it is breathtaking.” The ambassador let her eyes wander over the group, and several of the nobles flinched when she looked at them. Then she caught Riallan’s eye and gave the tiniest flicker of a smile.

Fighting to hide her laugh, Riallan turned back to Madame de Vallieux. The woman wore a bright grin beneath her mask, her dark eyes glittering. She inclined her head to Riallan. “Thank you, Inquisitor, for a most splendid evening.” Her lips quivered with mirth. “I am certain there will be much talk of this evening for weeks to come.”

Riallan bowed her head ever so slightly. “Thank you, but surely all thanks must go to Lady Montilyet.” She battled her own smile as she said, “She can be quite vociferous when it comes to parties.”

Madame de Vallieux snorted at that. “Of that I have no doubt.” The Orlesian curtsied. “Bonne soir, Inquisitor,” she said, and then took her leave of Riallan.

The evening wound down after that, the mood understandably shifted. Those who had been eviscerated by Josephine’s revelations made hasty retreats, while others remained to leverage the information to their advantage. Either way, Riallan’s patience for the party had vanished. It wasn’t until they were in their carriage that she said anything to the ambassador.

“You didn’t have to do that, Josephine.”

She frowned. “Yes, I did. If you had come to your own defense, or worse Master Solas’, you would have only confirmed their suspicions.” She shook her head. “The rumor would only have grown.” She gave Riallan a curious look. “I got the distinct impression you would not have liked that.”

It wasn’t until she’d heard how the Orlesians spoke about them that Riallan really understood Solas’ desire for discretion. Their judgment outraged her, made her see red in a situation she absolutely could not afford to lose her cool. He feared those in positions of power would use their relationship as a weapon, as a means to tear her down.

The greater concern is that she would destroy her own status and reputation in his defense. No, she understood now, and agreed with him. It would be better to keep to themselves as much as they could.

Josephine cleared her throat at her prolonged silence. “I was not aware you and Master Solas had entered into a relationship.”

Riallan smiled. “That was intentional.” She sighed. “We wanted to be discreet, for this exact reason.”

The ambassador nodded. “Does anyone at Skyhold know?”

“Dorian does, and I think Varric has put two and two together.” She paused, then said, “and I suspect Leliana knows, because Leliana knows everything.”

She scowled at that. “I should not be surprised that she would keep this from me, and yet…”

Riallan laughed. “That’s the look Dorian gave me when he discovered us.”

Josephine smiled. “I will not tell anyone, Riallan.”

“I know, Josephine.”

The ambassador flushed. “Would it be inappropriate for me to say I am happy for you?”

She laughed. “Why would it be inappropriate? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Josephine flushed, a pleased grin illuminating her face. “Yes. Yes, I think we are.”

Riallan settled back against her seat, more relaxed than she ever thought she could be after attending an Orlesian party. The gentle rocking of the carriage and the warmth of wine and Josephine’s remarks set her at ease and she soon succumbed to a peaceful slumber.


	32. Transformation

Cassandra was not what one would describe as observant. She was driven. Focused. Once presented with a goal she pursued it, relentlessly. And usually in the most efficient and effective way possible. The Seeker thought in straight lines, rarely pausing to consider more circuitous methods. It was why she was so terrible at the Grand Game.

But after months of traveling with the Inquisitor and Solas, even she had noticed the change in their relationship.

Riallan was not an unfriendly person; her smiles came often and were freely given. But she could be quiet, even seeming shy when meeting new people. She also was not one to touch. She kept her hands to herself even with those she seemed closest with. Dorian, who Cassandra believed to be the Inquisitor’s best friend, was rarely gifted with a hug or brush of her hand.

But with Solas her touches lingered. After a battle, when he’d taken a beating, her hand rested on his arm, her fingers wrapped tight around his bicep, as if with fear. Or perhaps relief. At dinner, when they settled around their campfire, Riallan always managed to find the seat nearest him, and more often than not they sat close enough for her knee to bump his.

These developments were not so startling unto themselves. The two elves had always been close, since Riallan first awoke in Haven a hero instead of a prisoner. What was startling was Solas’ reaction to her.

He smiled more. True smiles that glittered in his eyes and even showed his teeth. His deep chuckle frequently blossomed into full-blown laughter at something the Inquisitor said or did, and his typical stoicism seemed an afterthought whenever Riallan was around. In her presence, he was a man transformed. His intelligence had never been in question, but with the Inquisitor that intelligence sharpened into a wit Cassandra had not expected. His humor was understated, left to interpretation, but she couldn’t deny that, around Riallan, Solas was funny.

And of course there were the conversations that they seemed to think she couldn’t hear. Whispers and innuendo, lingering looks and flushed cheeks. The first time she’d heard such doublespeak between them, she admittedly did not understand. She assumed it was some inside joke, something she simply did not have the context for.

It turned out she was not entirely incorrect.

Now, as she looked back over the past few months, Cassandra’s jaw dropped. She had traveled with them this whole time, had shared a camp thinking nothing of the times the two shared a tent. She blinked, the firelight bright and warm on her cheeks, fighting off the desert’s nighttime chill.

“How long?” She asked.

Riallan looked up from the scroll she was reading and tilted her head. Beside her on the rock, Solas did not look away from his sketchbook. It was a typical evening in the field for them. Even Cole was nearby, murmuring to a nug he’d invited into the camp.

The Inquisitor gave her a confused look. “How long what, Cassandra?”

She blushed and stammered over her words. “How long have you…” She looked pointedly between Riallan and Solas.

Solas looked up then. “Ah.” The pair shared a glance, communicating without speaking, then Solas shrugged.

Riallan looked back to her. “Almost three months?” She looked to him for confirmation and he nodded. “Just after we returned from Dirthamen’s Temple,” she said.

Three months? Three months of travel, of meals and evenings shared, and she hadn’t noticed?

“I’m sorry, Cassandra,” Riallan said. “I thought you knew.”

“Looking back, I should have.” She sighed. “Does anyone else know?”

“I do,” Cole piped up from the edge of the camp.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Anyone besides Cole?”

Solas looked to Riallan, his head tilted and mirth glittering in his eyes. The Inquisitor blushed. “Well, Dorian was first,” she said. “Though I think Varric figured it out before him.”

Dread filled Cassandra’s chest, cold as Storm Coast rain. “Varric knows?”

“Presumably,” Solas said. “Though we have not told him, Varric is observant.” His tone made it clear that he didn’t find the trait endearing.

“Then there’s Josephine and Leliana.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Leliana knows?”

Riallan shrugged. “I assume so. Nothing happens in Skyhold without her knowledge.”

Cassandra sighed. “Anyone else?”

The Inquisitor shook her head. “Not that I’ve told.” She glanced at Solas.

He chuckled. “I’ve told no one, vhenan.”

“You keep using that word,” Cassandra said. “What does it mean?”

Solas blushed, and Cassandra very nearly fell off her seat. He cleared his throat. “It is an elvhen term of endearment,” he said. He did not look at her.

Riallan laughed and rubbed a hand up and down his back. “It means ‘heart’,” she said. “Traditionally, when the Dalish call someone their vhenan, we are calling that person our heart, or the keeper of our heart.”

Solas’ voice was barely more than a whisper when he added, “where my heart resides.”

Riallan beamed at him, the faint pink of the sunburn on her cheeks vanishing into a crimson blush.

Cassandra smiled at the pair. She was happy for them, she realized. The Inquisitor deserved peace and happiness wherever she could find it. If Solas offered that, if he found it in her in return, then, well… That was beautiful.

She groaned with a sudden realization.

“What?” Riallan asked.

“You realize, if Varric knows about you two, he _will_ write about it.”

Solas blanched while Riallan laughed, and as she watched the pair and thought of all their interactions over the past months, Cassandra thought she wouldn’t mind reading that book after all.


	33. Bow & Arrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was part of the 14 Days of DA Lovers. Enjoy!

Sera was never the quietest girl, like the song said. All these months she’d made her thoughts on Elfy plain. He was stuck up. Elf this, legacy that. Magic, spirits, the Fade. She hated all of it. And while she didn’t hate him, it was a near thing.

Inky on the other hand… well, she liked her. She was little people once. Littler even than Sara was. Her clan might be too elfy for her tastes, but they lived hard, humble lives. That she understood.

What she didn’t understand was why Riallan would choose Solas. Inky was funny, with a wicked wit she only let out to play sometimes. She was strong, not just with all that lightning, but with her head and her heart. She told the Orlesians what for in Halamshiral and put ‘em in their place.

Sera liked that.

But Solas? He was boring. Too quiet, too obsessed with things that ought to be left alone. He hardly ever joined them in the tavern, and he smiled even less. He was a know-it-all, and so full of himself that Sera had no choice but to bring him down a peg every now and again.

That time she’d left lizards in his bedroll had been brilliant! Oh, he’d been right pissed for days.

Varric had been the one to let it slip. He’d had a mug too many and he’d made some remark about Riallan and Solas, then wagged his eyebrows at her. She might have thought it just a fun joke, but Dorian had damn near slapped his hand over the dwarf’s mouth to shut him up. That confirmed it.

So now she walked through the desert with them and Cassandra, them none-the-wiser that she knew they were bumping bits. She wanted to figure it out. She wanted to understand what could convince Inky to spend all her free time with someone so… Solas.

She didn’t think it was his looks, not that she was a very good judge. Not that he was unattractive, but he was plain. And bald. And she’d seen him shave so it was on purpose. His eyes were pretty enough, like the water at the Storm Coast, but usually they were just as cold.

No. It couldn’t be his looks.

She’d heard about his painting, had gone to see it one day. It was pretty, all bold colors and strong lines. She liked it, though she couldn’t pick any one thing about it that made her feel that way. It just looked right. She’d struggled to connect the art to the man, but maybe that’s why he was so plain. He put all the interesting bits into the art.

“Trouble ahead,” he said.

She had to admit, he did have a nice voice. Smooth and low and she reckoned it sounded nice whispered in the dark. She unslung her bow and nocked an arrow, scanning for the so-called trouble.

Red Templars were everywhere in the Wastes, and she was all too happy to stick an arrow in their throats. But she didn’t get much chance; the fight was finished almost as quickly as it’d begun.

Before anyone could move Solas cast a barrier, the magic cool and refreshing as it washed over her. Almost immediately after that, Riallan summoned a cage of purple lightning, trapping the corrupted Templars in an electrified circle. Solas froze another Templar as Sera’s arrow took him in the head, shattering the man dead.

Cassandra finally reached the three Templars, her blade hacking at them with all the fury of a woman betrayed. Solas cast something weird, all green and sickly, like the Fade, and the Templars crashed to the ground, only for Riallan to shoot a fist of stone at them as they stood up.

A marksman managed to dodge the fist, and fired a desperate arrow at Riallan. It hit, and she grunted, but didn’t fall. Instead she spun her staff and launched a ball of fire at the man. He froze a second before the fire hit him, another well-timed spell from Solas, and then fell writhing to die in the dirt.

Only then did Riallan drop to one knee.

“Vhenan!” Solas fade stepped to her side, careful hands at her shoulder, where the arrow stuck out from her skin.

She bit her lip and groaned. “It’s not too bad,” she said through her teeth.

Sera and Cassandra stood over them, worried but ultimately useless. They weren’t healers.

Solas frowned. “You are lucky. The arrowhead didn’t hit anything vital.”

She smiled, an ugly thing that looked more pained than happy. “Just a flesh wound?”

He glared at her. “Lie down,” he said.

She obeyed, but went pale with the effort. It hurt more than she let on.

“Do you want something to bite down on?”

She shook her head. “Just get it over with.” She was in pain, but she held his eyes and there was nothing but trust there.

It dawned on Sera that this was not the first time they’d done this particular dance. She was about to say as much when Solas placed one palm on Riallan’s chest. The other took hold of the arrow and yanked in one smooth motion. Inky cried out, a low guttural sound, then rolled away from him onto her side.

“Fenedhis that hurts!”

He examined the arrowhead and let out a relieved sigh. “It does not seem to be poisoned this time.”

“Thank the Creators,” she said. She didn’t sound all that thankful to Sera.

Solas chuckled and rolled her onto her back again. He placed a hand over the wound and Riallan relaxed at the touch. A pale blue glow flickered over his palm, and when he sat back the Inquisitor sighed.

“That’s much better.” She sat up and rolled her shoulder. She hissed.

“We should apply a poultice, to be safe.” He helped her stand and they brushed the sand off their armor.

“As soon as we get to camp,” she said.

He didn’t look like he agreed with that, but he didn’t say so. And then they were off, walking through the desert as if nothing had happened. Sera understood then.

Maybe she couldn’t see the initial appeal, but now she saw the way they fit together. In battle she was a storm, crashing over their enemies, corralling them and bombarding them with elemental attacks. Solas supported those attacks with barriers for his allies and by freezing his foes.

Outside of battle they were just similar enough to be drawn together. Both quiet and bookish, obsessed with the past and elves and magic. But Riallan was a presence. When she walked in the room you noticed, and not just because she was the Inquisitor. There was something magnetic about her, that drew people in and convinced them to help her. She’d used it to her advantage a dozen times as the Herald.

Solas was the opposite. Plain to the point of invisibility, he walked without notice and so saw so much more than anyone realized. It was one thing Sera liked about him. He was sneaky, observant. It reeked of little people, of servants used to being ignored. Not for the first time, she wondered where he’d come from, what his life was before the Inquisition.

But she knew she’d never know the answers. They weren’t for her.

They were for _her._ Riallan and Solas walked shoulder to shoulder at the head of their group, talking quietly. He was tall, taller than her by at least a head, and though the Inquisitor seemed well enough, his body curved toward her. His concern telegraphed in his walk.

Sera smirked. She got it now. She was the arrow, he was the bow. They were neat on their own, but only really made sense once you put them together.


	34. Dalish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This was part of a prompt, but I couldn't tell you what it was or what it was for. Also, just warning you that there are some angsty times head. Enjoy!

Riallan knew she should be up in her quarters, that the Inquisitor should only be seen as a source of strength and power. That sitting in Skyhold’s gardens with her back against the big tree trying not to sob too openly was hardly in keeping with her carefully crafted image.

Cullen would disapprove, though he would never say as much to her face. Josephine would understand, but she would also scramble to spin the truth in such a way that the tears proved her strength. Leliana would sit with her and offer tissues, and threaten to kill anyone who ever spoke a word of it.

But Riallan hadn’t given any of her advisors a chance to do any of those things. Suddenly Josephine’s contemplative mood made sense, hanging at the edges of Riallan’s vision as she looked at the war table. Cullen’s drawn expression, the tense line of his shoulders. She’d assumed the withdrawal had hit him hard that morning, but now she knew it was apprehension. Dread.

Leliana let nothing show. Not a flicker of pity in her eye, no gentle quality to her voice. Her hand hadn’t even shook when she handed Riallan the report. She’d read half of it, the only half that mattered, and then let the parchment slip from her icy fingers. It hadn’t even hit the table before she had run from the room seeking the only solace she could.

She needed the sky above her and the earth below. She needed the trees and the grass and the subtle sweetness of flowers in the sun. She needed home.

But she would never get to go back home. She would never awaken in a dark aravel that smelled of fresh baked bread and meat roasting on an open spit, while the clan elders spoke softly at its flames. She would never tease the da’len that crowded around her, telling exaggerated stories of her trials and triumphs at the helm of the Inquisition.

She would never get to introduce Solas to Deshanna. Her Keeper could never know the peace and love she had found amidst so much terror and violence.

A fresh surge of grief rolled over her, and Riallan covered her face in her hands as she wept.

She was surprised to hear Solas approach the tree, his bare feet heavy in the loose dirt. He was naturally quiet, a result of the stillness that clung to his bones. Movement for him was always purposeful and full of grace, even when he wasn’t trying. If she heard him approaching, it was intentional.

He sat beside her, sinking onto crossed ankles so that his knee bumped her thigh. That simple touch, innocent as it was, sent a wave of relief through her. She needed his stillness, the stoic calm that radiated from him always. Within she was all furious storm and pain, she had no capacity for peace. He knew this, and so brought his own to her.

She sobbed even harder.

Without a word he draped an arm over her shoulder, allowing her to collapse against his side and bury her face into his tunic. She could stay there forever, surrounded in his warmth and the sharp cedar smell that mingled with his own natural scent, like sunlight in winter.And she knew that, today, he would let her.

She cried and he sheltered her from the world until her sobbing turned to sniffles and she felt like she could breathe again. She sat up and Solas adjusted his back against the tree to give her some space.

“What’s the point?” She asked, wiping at her face.

He tilted his head. “Of what, vhenan?”

“Of this.” She gestured to the courtyard, the people milling about, pretending not to be eavesdropping, to Skyhold. “I have all of this, which I don’t even want, and I can’t even protect the people who matter most!” Her words crumbled into new tears, but she continued. “It’s my fault, Solas. I made the wrong choice, I sent the wrong people, I misjudged the situation. No matter how I look at it, how much I pick it apart in my mind, it all comes back to the truth.” She stopped, her body swaying, like branches in a breeze. She whispered, “it’s my fault they’re dead.”

He took her hand, and she was always surprised at how warm his palm was against hers. “Riallan. It may be true that you are not blameless; no leader ever is. But you are not solely responsible for the turnings of the world.” His grip tightened on her hand, steadying her. “Do you believe that tension between your clan and the humans grew by pure coincidence?” He shook his head. “Lavellan is a name known throughout Thedas now, and there are those who bear hearts black enough to strike at you in any way they can.”

The idea didn’t surprise her. Somewhere, in some part of her mind that managed to work beyond her grief, she had already come to a similar conclusion.

“The only question now,” Solas said. “Is what you will do in response.”

Response? This was her response. Sobbing at the foot of the biggest tree she could find and wishing she’d never left the Marches. That was it; she wasn’t capable of much else at the moment.

“I would like to see what’s left,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “I, I need to see it.”

He nodded. “I will tell Josephine. She will arrange everything.” He stood, then bowed down to press his lips to her forehead. It was a rare public display, and it meant everything to her in that moment.

“Solas,” she called as he stepped away from her. He turned to face her, his eyes soft and concerned. “Tell Josephine to send a diplomat with us.”

“May I ask why, vhenan?”

The well of grief that flooded over in her chest suddenly hardened into something sharp and cold as steel. “Because if I meet a single noble in Wycome I will kill them where they stand.”

She wasn’t sure how he would take such a proclamation, but she had seen him after Wisdom’s passing. She had stopped him from lifting a hand against those stupid mages, and now she wished she hadn’t.

Because now she knew exactly how he felt.


	35. The Meadow, pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This one is long, and full of feels. I hope you love it as much as I do...

The journey to Wycome was long and tense. It took nearly a week to reach the city by ship, and during that time Riallan spoke little. Solas was used to quiet, to traveling for weeks and barely hearing his own voice until he dreamt in some ruin. Even with Riallan they were prone to peaceful bouts of silence. It was comfortable, serene. Calm and soothing when worried minds would rather tie themselves in knots.

That was not the case on this journey. Riallan’s silence was a heavy thing, oppressive and all consuming. He only heard her voice when she spoke to the pair of diplomats Josephine had sent with them, and even then it was void of all the warmth and humor he’d come to expect.

In the dark of night, tucked in the small cabin they shared, Riallan slept with her face pressed to his chest. Some nights she cried, but the closer they drew to the Marches the more she withdrew and the less she wept.

He wasn’t certain it was an improvement.

Once in the city, Riallan’s silent grief transformed to a barely restrained fury. The four of them walked to the inn where Josephine had booked their rooms, Riallan marching ahead of them. She didn’t face him, but he recognized the disapproval that wracked her body at the sight of the lavish inn. The marble floor gleamed beneath their feet as they entered, and with each step he feared her rage would explode from her.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” said the concierge, a tall man with a bushy mustache and a thick brogue. “Welcome to Wycome. The Palisade is honored to serve you.”

She held the man’s gaze until he flushed and cleared his throat. “Lady Montilyet reserved two rooms,” he glanced at their party. “Is that correct?”

The diplomats nodded, but Riallan had other plans. “We only need one,” she said. Her tone begged the man to argue with her, begged the diplomats too. “Whichever is the nicer.” She glanced at the diplomats and added, “I will be sleeping elsewhere.”

“You worship--”

“Inquisitor--”

“I will meet you at the ship after three days,” she said to their companions.

She didn’t even glance at Solas as she walked by and out the door. He wasn’t sure if she was giving him the choice to join her or if she simply assumed he would follow. Honestly, she might not have considered him at all, her perceptions were so clouded with fury and grief.

He followed her out into the cobblestone street and walked beside her without a word. When they left the city and followed the road into the forest, he knew where they would eventually end up.

The smell of smoke met them first. It was faint now, weeks old, but the flavor of ash still tinged the air and filled him with dread. It did not take much creativity for him to imagine the scene they would find in the meadow.

Her meadow.

What he hadn’t expected was an Inquisition agent waiting for them in the trees. The woman bent at the waist, her fist at her heart. “Inquisitor. Lady Nightingale sent me to secure the meadow.”

Riallan’s voice was lifeless. “Did you touch anything?”

“No, Your Worship.” She grimaced. “Only buried the remains as you requested. We were able to identify almost everyone thanks to your descriptions.”

Riallan swallowed and her eyes glistened, but no tears fell. “And Deshanna?”

The agent looked at her feet. “The Keeper rests just outside the camp, with a view of the creek.” She cleared her throat. “The saplings arrived yesterday.” She glanced between Riallan and Solas. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “You may leave us.”

She bowed again. “Of course, Inquisitor.” She cast a knowing glance at Solas, then she vanished into the woods. If the agent actually left them, he would eat his shirt. He had a feeling Leliana would not let the Inquisitor out of her sight for awhile.

Riallan made to continue on into the meadow, but she paused at the brush of his fingers on her arm. When she didn’t look at him, he said, “Vhenan…” 

“We don’t have time for this,” she said, but there was no heat in her voice. “We have almost thirty trees to plant and only three days to do it.”

“Ria.” He tugged on her arm. “Look at me.”

She turned to face him, silent tears tracking her cheeks, but said nothing.

“What are you thinking?”

She took a shuddering breath. “Too many things.”

“Drith ma, vhenan.”

She closed her eyes and let the words pour from her. “That I should have been here. That I could have helped. That I’ll never forgive myself for being gone so long. That I’ll never hear my maela’s voice again. That I’ll never get to introduce you to her. That I never wanted to share the meadow with you like this.”

She took a deep, terrified breath and whispered, “That none of this would have happened if I’d had the decency to just die in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Her words, her fears, all the horrible grief she carried in her heart brought a sting to his eyes. He blinked to keep the tears at bay; it would hardly help if he started crying too. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he was glad she yet lived, that the world would be poorer for her loss, but he knew she wasn’t ready to hear them. In this moment she would gladly give her life if it meant it would bring her clan back.

There was nothing he could say that would change that. So, instead, he laced his fingers through hers and brought her trembling knuckles to his lips. “Come vhenan,” he said. “Let’s put your clan to rest.”

The days were long, the work of digging and planting trees a physical labor he hadn’t experienced in a long time. But he made no complaint, even as the heat threatened to suffocate him and the sun burned his skin. Across the meadow, Riallan had stripped down to her leggings and breast band, sweat glistening on her skin. She hadn’t cried since they entered the ruined camp. The sight of the charred and broken aravels, massacred halla scattered around them, had brought her to her knees, but once the shock wore off, anger and purpose fueled her.

She had too much work to do and now that indomitable focus he so admired served her well.

If the days were long, then the nights were eternity. Despite the back-breaking work, Riallan hardly slept. She kept vigil at the fire, her eyes distant as she succumbed to memories.

“It’s fitting,” she said on the third night. Firelight flickered on her face, casting her green eyes in shadow. She met his gaze for a fleeting moment, then looked out toward the creek. “My parents and sister are buried here.”

He had never heard her speak of any other family besides Deshanna. He’d assumed some sort of tragedy made her keep them to herself. His silence was invitation enough for her to continue.

“Mamae died in childbirth. Twins are hard even when one of the babies isn’t breached.”

“I did not know you were a twin,” he said, which was silly. Of course he didn’t, she’d never once mentioned it.

She nodded. “Maela said we were identical, and that the world simply wouldn’t have been able to handle the both of us.” She smiled at that, a sad and bitter thing. “Raena was stillborn. Mamae wouldn’t stop bleeding, no matter what Deshanna tried.” She shrugged. “Papae never recovered. He went on a hunt and didn’t return. One of our hunters found him days later hanging from a tree.”

Solas watched her and felt true fear claw at his chest. The way she said it all, blithe and unconcerned. As if she’d said it a million times before, as if she felt not a single word that passed over her lips. There was a detachment to her he had never seen, as if her spirit would simply float away if it weren’t for the body rooting her to the earth.

Riallan stood suddenly and held her hand out to him. “Walk with me?”

He’d grown accustomed to her whiplash moods these past days. Her emotions were powerful and fleeting, making her a tempest of fury and grief one moment, and the still of a moonless night the next. The best he could do for her was to be the rock her tides crashed against, steady and unflinching in the brunt of her storm.

“Of course,” he said, and let her pull him to his feet. On their way to the bank of the creek, they passed the only grave that had yet to be graced with a tree. Riallan avoided Deshanna’s burial site, either because she wanted to honor her grandmother last or because she was dreading the ritual. Probably both.

When they reached the creek she settled down onto the bank and stretched out on her back. Solas followed her lead. The night was warm but the sea breeze was cool and refreshing, the sky above them clear and bright with stars.

He closed his eyes and focused on his other senses. The smell of the salt in the air doing its part to scour the ashy tang of death from the meadow. The ripple and babble of the creek as the cool, clear water tumbled over the stones that made its bed. The sway and hush of leaves in the trees promising a new sort of life after death.

It took him a moment to notice the change in Riallan’s breathing beside him. He’d slipped into a meditative state as he absorbed the meadow, but the hitch in her breath, the sharp, broken, shuddering sound as she struggled to control herself wrenched his eyes open.

“Vhenan?”

She covered her face with her hands and shook her head. When he reached for her she rolled away from him, curling in on herself as terrible sobs wracked her body. He followed her, curved his body around hers, and held her as grief tore her apart.

Riallan had cried a lot in the last week. Tears that came fast and hard, then dried just as quickly. Soft, trickling tears that hardly anyone noticed before she dabbed them away. Quaking, shaking tears that left little evidence on her face, but told the tale of her grief in the tremors of her body. All of those tears had been cried, and yet none of them bore the true weight of her loss.

There, on the bank of her favorite place in the world, Riallan’s grief was finally set free. She shuddered and sobbed, gasping for air and choking on tears until she was nearly sick. But Solas did not let go of her. He kept one arm around her middle, holding her back to his chest, while the other brushed the hair from her forehead in soothing strokes.

He did not shush her. He did not whisper comforting things or try to convince her that everything would be all right, no matter how much his heart ached for her. She had just lost her entire family, her people. Her clan. He would not diminish her grief with his selfish attempts to make her feel better.

He knew how she felt all too well. If he could take that pain from her, he would. But he could not. Like so much else in their lives, she would have to endure.

Solas held her until her tears subsided, until she rolled toward him and pressed her face into his chest. Until her breathing evened out and she abandoned the meadow for the solace of the Fade. Once he was certain she was asleep, he carried her back to their little tent and put her to bed. Then he settled in to guard her dreams.

In the morning Riallan insisted on planting Deshanna’s tree on her own. He gave her the privacy she desired, and busied himself with preparing their lunch. He watched over her, from a respectful distance, as she sank down onto her knees. The tree was planted. Riallan wiped at her face, but she didn’t shake, didn’t sob. The tears were quieter once more.

He smiled as she began to speak, her voice too low, the distance too far for him to hear, but the longer she sat there, the more animated her hands became. And then she bowed, put her hands to the dirt, and cried. No maelstrom, no heaving sobs. Just the soft, rocking rhythm of sorrow casting her adrift one more time.

When she joined him at the fire her face was splotched with red, but her eyes were clear. Steady hands took the bowl he offered and she gave him the first smile he’d seen since he found her under the tree in Skyhold’s garden.

“Thank you, Solas,” she said. She looked down at the stew. “For being here. For helping me.”

He dropped the ladle back in the pot, abandoning his own meal to stand before her. He ducked his head to meet her gaze. “There’s no need to thank me, vhenan. I wanted to come.” He kissed her forehead and rubbed his hands up and down her arms.

She lifted her face and pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips. “Still,” she said. “Thank you. I don’t know how I would have done this without you.”

“Ara melava son’ganem, vhenan.” He cupped her face in each hand and looked her in the eyes. “Ar lath ma, Riallan.”

Tears pooled in her green eyes, and though sadness still filled them, something bright and warm edged at the centers.

Solas thought it looked an awful lot like hope.


	36. Love Letter

Maela,

I miss you. Though I suppose that goes without saying these days. I never thought I’d be gone from the clan this long, never thought the whole world would be watching my every move. It makes living hard; you know how I like my privacy. But now it’s a struggle just to find a moment to myself. It’s exhausting. And lonely. I’ve made friends here, more than I would have expected, but it’s not the same.

I’m not completely alone, though. Maela, I… I met someone. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. Kind, intelligent, a powerful mage with a passion for learning that rivals my own. We have such fascinating, winding conversations that go on long into the night. He’s taught me so much. And he’s an artist! You should see the things he creates, Maela. Sketches and paintings and murals, of anything and everything. They take my breath away.

He says he loves me, and… I think I love him too.

But he isn’t Dalish, Maela. Despite all his knowledge and love of history, he is bare-faced. I can’t help but wonder if that would matter to you? Would you begrudge me this love? Would you diminish the peace I have found with a disapproving look? Your eyes always could cut me to the quick. I like to think that you would be charmed by him, that his manners and his wit would convince you I’d made the right choice. I like to think you would come to love him.

But I’ll never know.

I wish… I wish you could have met. I wish I could have shown him our home, our family, beyond the confines of my dreams. Before it was all burned to ash.

I’m sorry about the smudges. I can’t seem to stop crying lately. I thought it would get better after visiting Wycome, and at first it did. It was relief, to know I’d done my best by the clan. That I hadn’t totally abandoned you. I was just a little late.

… I’m usually never late.

Dareth shiral, Maela. May Mythal guide you in the Beyond.

All my love,

Your Dirtha’len


	37. Reckless

Suledin Keep lived up to its name. Clearing the ancient structure of Red Templars was truly a test of endurance, a challenge Riallan threw herself at whole-heartedly. Despite the freezing temperature, sweat dripped from her temples and down the sides of her face. She breathed in heavy pants and set a brutal pace for her companions. Only Cole seemed unfazed by the work.

“It doesn’t hurt if you can’t think about it,” he said, tilting his head at her.

She caught Solas’ disapproving look, his face as red and sweaty as hers.

She ignored him. He would never admit it, but he’d been hovering ever since they returned from Wycome. And after all he’d seen in the aftermath of her clan’s death, she understood his concern, even appreciated it.

But she was fine.She just wanted to get back to work. Back to normal. Was that too much to ask? Besides, she could handle Red Templars.

The red lyrium infected giants… Those were an unexpected surprise.

“Vhenan!”

The rock hurtled through the air at her. She’d only looked up in time to see it coming because of Solas’ cry and in that moment she thought for sure she would be reduced to red splatter in the snow.

Instead cool magic, cold as the air around her and yet soothing, wrapped her in its embrace and carried her out of range of the furious, rock-heaving giant. Solas materialized out of the Fade Step, the worry in his eyes evaporating into anger.

She kissed him, the shock of it erasing his fury. “Yell at me later, okay?”

He scowled at her but nodded.

Riallan was being reckless. A little part of her acknowledged it even as the rest of her demanded it. She could spend time analyzing the behavior, digging to the root causes and recognizing that her grief wasn’t entirely in check, or she could put that pain to use and summon great storms to obliterate their enemies.

She preferred the latter.

But all her pent up fury and loss couldn’t tear down Imshael. Not completely. It took Cassandra’s blade to sunder the demon, and Riallan found herself kneeling against the snow-swept stones of the keep, panting and tired in a way she hadn’t felt since her magic first manifested.

She was out of mana.

The bone deep exhaustion made her limbs leaden. Her staff fell from numb fingertips, too heavy for her shaking hands. She felt wrung out, as if every drop of power had been siphoned from her, leaving a husk of who she was behind.

“Vhenan?” Solas crouched before her, hands on her face to draw her attention. His eyes searched hers, and some dim part of her mind appreciated the clinical look on his face as he assessed her.

He was in healer mode, and his concern was endlessly endearing to her.

“I may have,” she winced, “overdone it.”

He frowned. “Do you have any lyrium potions?”

“No.” She never carried them because she’d never needed them before. Solas had told her once that her connection to the Fade was stronger than most mages. Maybe that was why she never seemed to tire.

“Perhaps,” he said. She must have spoken her thoughts aloud. “It may also explain why being drained is having such a marked effect on you.”

She sighed, her eyelids drooping with the effort of keeping them open. She dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. “I’m so tired.”

He ran a hand up and down her back. “Come,” he said. “Let us claim this keep and then we can make camp.”

She nodded and stood on legs as shaky as a newborn halla’s. She climbed the final flight of stairs to raise the Inquisition’s flag, then sank against the stone and succumbed to the dreamless sleep of the injured.

Voices calling to one another, the crackle of a fire and the general sounds of camp woke Riallan. She blinked at the ceiling of a tent, trying to remember how she got there. They’d been in Suledin Keep, fighting Red Templars and then the demon…

“Peace, Ria,” Solas said. He sat toward the back of the tent, legs crossed and eyes closed, meditating. “We are safe. The Keep is yours; Inquisition forces claim it as we speak.”

That explained all the noise.

She sat up, surprised at how good she felt. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Almost two days,” he said. His voice was suspiciously blank.

Riallan considered herself, the lack of pain in her limbs, no bruises or scrapes, and the refreshed feeling of her magic coursing through her veins. This was more than the product of quality sleep.

“You healed me, didn’t you?”

He cracked an eye open to look at her. “Of course.” He frowned. “You pushed well beyond your limits.”

She blushed. “I know.”

“You are not typically so reckless.”

“I know.”

He tilted his head, both eyes open now and narrowed in her direction. “Do you have a death wish?”

So it wasn’t meditative peace that kept his tone so neutral. It was barely controlled anger.

“No!” She paused, considered her actions as they battled through Suledin Keep and sighed. “At least, not intentionally.”

Nothing about Solas softened, he was all hard lines and stiff posture. “I assured Leliana you were ready to return to the field.” He arched an eyebrow at her, and for the first time in a long time, Riallan wanted to yell at him. “Was that decision in error?”

She stood, only then realizing she was in just her small clothes. The intimacy only fueled her outrage and she pulled on her leggings with much more force than necessary. “I’m sorry, hahren,” she snapped. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to do my job.”

His voice was low and whip-sharp as it lashed at her. “Tel’abelas, da’len. Merely do better.”

She threw her tunic at him, the fabric hitting him in the face. “I’m not a child for you to watch over!”

He set the shirt aside with steady hands; all his fury burned in his eyes. “Then I suggest you stop acting like one.”

Riallan bit back a scream of frustration.

“Did you even once consider what it would mean if you perished?” He stood, reminding her of just how tall he was. “What would become of Thedas if you fell before defeating Corypheus?”

She scoffed, but he ignored her, stepping closer to loom over her.

“Did you stop to consider what would become of the Inquisition, what would become of me--” His voice broke, his lips pursed around the sound and his eyes closed.

All of her anger melted away.

Riallan pulled his face down to hers and kissed him hard. She saw through his fury, to the fear behind it, and took it all into herself. She had caused this, she would take it from him and make it right.

She pressed her forehead to his. “I’m sorry.” The words were a mere breath against his lips, but they carried the weight of her guilt just the same.

It took several excruciating moments for the tension to leave his body, for his hands to find her waist, to exhale and let his head rest against hers. She wondered then, if his reaction went beyond just her own recklessness. Solas always seemed to be fighting a war within himself, and no amount of prodding would help him open up to her. He would tell her when he was ready, or not at all.

And, without knowing when or where, Riallan had decided she was okay with that. He cared for her with a depth of devotion she had never known before. He had been by her side from that first terrifying day at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but it wasn’t until she could lace her fingers through his that she truly felt she could be the person the world needed her to be.

For that strength, for the warmth of him beside her, she would allow him his past. At least for now.


	38. Undeniable

Solas knew he shouldn’t be angry. It was the smart decision, the right decision, to leave him behind. But after her foolishness in the Emprise, he couldn’t help but worry that Riallan would leap headlong into more trouble than she could handle. Worry was acceptable. Arguing with her in front of their companions, her soldiers, and the remaining Grey Wardens was not.

The man in shining silverite armor at his feet groaned and gasped, writhing on the weathered stones.

“Focus,” Solas muttered to himself. He could worry over the Inquisitor once his task was complete. His power came willingly, but it felt thin beneath his skin as he honed the healing magic into the open gash in the Warden’s thigh. Healing Grey Wardens was hardly what he’d imagined his role in the taking of Adamant Fortress, but with the reveal of Erimond’s treachery, the lines of friend and foe had blurred. Again.

The man settled back against the stones, his pain eased as the wound stitched itself closed underneath Solas’ touch. He handed the Warden a small health potion and a twig of elfroot. It would do little to aid the healing, but it would lessen the pain.

He was about to say as much when a familiar, bone-rattling screech sliced through the din of battle. A shadow passed over him, too fast, and then the beat of furious wings.

“Dragon!” Men cried.

“The Archdemon!”

Confusion tore through the courtyard as soldiers, Warden and Inquisition alike, asked questions with no answers. Not any good ones, anyway. Solas tracked the dragon’s progress over the fortress for a moment, then stood to move on to the next patient. Then the entire fortress shook and shuddered, as if from a great blow.

“Look! The Inquisitor!”

All heads turned to follow the pointed finger, to see Riallan, glimmering green in her Keeper’s robes, facing down Corypheus’ supposed archdemon on the crumbled remains of a great bridge. A bridge that yawned out over the impenetrable murk of the Abyssal Reach.

His gut clenched. His heart dropped. His breath stopped. Memories flashed through his mind of the last time he’d watched her stare down that beast. It’d been twilight, her freckled face aglow with the embers of the creature’s flame. She’d ordered them to go, to run. To join the others and get to safety. Even then his heart had protested, but his mind had won out, as ever.

He had thought her lost to him, then. Those days had been the darkest he’d known since rising from uthenera. Was he about to relive them?

Now his vhenan stood to face a veritable monster, her face grim and resolute. This time her companions did not flee. He ached to be there with her, at her side was where he belonged. He ought to be the hand she reached for, the protective glow of his magic kissing her skin with pale blue light.

“Run,” he said, but the word died on his lips. His throat was dry, too dry to call out to her, and she was too far from him, besides. She would not hear him. He could not reach her. Not with his voice, or his magic, or his heart.

Solas could only watch as the bridge collapsed under the beast’s fury. He could only watch as she ran towards safety, as she ushered and pulled and forced her companions on ahead of her.

He could only watch as it all proved futile and the bridge gave way beneath her feet. The Inquisitor and her companions, Dorian, Sera, Iron Bull, Hawke and Alistair, fell into the Abyss.

Around him stunned silence smothered the courtyard. The quiet, so out of place in the previously bustling fortress, barely registered. He only faintly recognized that he’d fallen to his knees because of the bite of the stone against bone. Trembling hands came to cover his face, followed by a dim sense of surprise at the wetness on his cheeks.

She was gone. In the blink of an eye, she had fallen out of his world and the last words she’d heard from him had been spoken in anger. The words of a petulant child, displeased with being left behind. And the worst part was that he hadn’t even been angry with her.

He had been angry with himself. Angry at the hurt and worry that flashed through him when she asked him to stay to heal the wounded. He clung to the notion that he should not become too attached to her, that she couldn’t be real. Even after everything some part of him balked at the thought of her meaning so much to him.

But now, on his knees, crying into his palms, the truth was undeniable. He loved her. He knew that, told her so at every opportunity, and yet he’d still hoped it would prove a fleeting feeling. That he had misjudged the depth of his affection.

Only now he realized that he had misjudged it. He loved her more than even he had known. More than anyone that had come before. In all his long years he had never known a love like Riallan’s, steady, forgiving, accepting and craving. And now it was gone.

Shuddering with silent grief, Solas knew then that he would give anything, give up his schemes and his plans and his duty to his people, if it meant he could have her safe in his arms.

Mighty though Riallan was, even she could not escape gravity. He could not sense the anchor, could not find the bright light of her spirit behind closed eyes.

She was gone, truly gone. And he was alone once again.


	39. Never Again

Riallan should be dead. She knew this on a deep, inexplicable level. When one plummeted into a literal abyss, surviving wasn’t usually considered a potential outcome. And yet, she wasn’t dead. She was decidedly not dead and dangling mere feet above the ground.

The world shifted, down going sideways and left becoming up so that she landed flat on her back in the dirt.

“This is unexpected,” said Hawke. She stood above Riallan, feet planted on a rock that appeared to be floating in the sky, looking down (or was it up?) at the Inquisitor.

“Oh no,” said Warden Alistair. His voice held a dreadful finality. “This is bad. Very bad.” He stood on another floating rock, this time perpendicular to what Riallan considered the ground.

“Are we…” Dorian spun around, grey eyes flitting from the rocks to the green sky to their companions in their various states of gravity. “Is this the Fade?”

Sera cursed, her voice high and thready with fear.

“If this is the Fade,” said Iron Bull, gripping his war-hammer tight. “That means demons.” He blinked at Riallan. “You know how I feel about demons, Boss.”

She accepted Dorian’s hand and he hauled her upright. She dusted herself off and said, “I’m not very fond of them, either, Bull.”

He snorted. “Don’t let Solas hear you say that.”

She rolled her eyes but decided to ignore the barb.

“How…?” Dorian started, eyes wide as he continued to take it all in.

The mark in Riallan’s hand flashed and crackled, green light snapping into the air. “I opened a rift,” she said.

“Into the Fade?” Dorian gaped at her. “You realize we’re the first to walk here, physically, since before the First Blight?”

“Sod all that!” Sera stormed up to Riallan and grabbed her left hand. “Take us back,” she shouted. “You brought us, that means you can take us back. Now!”

Riallan gently removed her hand from the elf’s frantic grip. “I don’t think it’s that simple, Sera.”

“Nothing about the Fade ever is,” Alistair said. There was a darkness in his voice, history and experience that Riallan desperately wanted to know, but now was not the time for an interview.

“We should move,” said Hawke.

Bull nodded his agreement.

So they moved, though Riallan was never quite certain they were going in the right direction. She could see the Black City always in the distance no matter how far they walked, and the little memories and whispers fascinated her.

“Solas would love this,” she said. She didn’t regret asking him to stay behind. They needed healers and he was among the best. It was the right decision. But she did regret that he couldn’t be with her in the Fade. She didn’t think any descriptions would ever be enough to appease his curiosity on the matter.

Dorian fell into step with her. “Please do endeavor to look a little less pleased, dearest,” he said. “If you haven’t noticed, poor Sera is unraveling at the seams.”

It was true. Sera hadn’t loosened her grip on her bow since they’d arrived, and her wide eyes darted every which way in case of attack.

“The only way to help Sera is to get out of here,” she said. She glanced at him. “How’re you holding up?”

He barked a laugh. “Oh, just peachy! The last time a Tevinter mage was physically in the Fade he damned the whole world to suffer the Blight. I’m sure this will be fine.”

She gave him an apologetic look. “At least we weren’t trying to come here.”

He looked around them, at the sickly green hue that coated every rock and cloud. “I suppose it is a sight better than falling to our deaths.”

“Opening a rift was quick thinking,” Hawke added.

Riallan shrugged. “It was more instinct than thought.”

“Comforting,” Dorian said.

“Good instincts, then,” Alistair said.

She shrugged. She would accept their praise when she’d managed to get them all out of the Fade in one piece.

But that proved more difficult than even she could have expected. The spirit image of Divine Justinia helped, and Riallan was glad to have her memories back, but she would gladly go back to not remembering if it meant Alistair was standing beside her in the courtyard of Adamant Fortress.Instead he’d stayed behind to buy them the precious time they needed to escape the Nightmare.

Riallan was furious as she leapt out of the green rift at the heart of Adamant Fortress. She shook with rage as she stood to stare at the men and women battling demons all around her. That rage coursed through her, tangled with her mana, and activated the Anchor in her palm.

The demons dissolved at her whim and every person who remained turned to stare at her. She couldn’t admit, couldn’t let it show, but she was shaken. To her very bones. Her head hurt, as if the weight of her memories scraped against her skull, and her heart ached. Not just for Alistair, who had proven himself the one good Warden she’d yet to meet, but for her companions. For Solas. She had seen the gravestone in the Fade, the one with his name and his greatest fear etched in the rock.

_Dying alone._

His loneliness, his isolation, went deeper than even she understood. He was always separate from the others, never quite joining in, as if he stood apart from the world somehow. He wore that otherness like armor, even though it was really a cage.

The courtyard exploded into sound as soldiers cheered and Wardens called to her, but she barely heard them. Her eyes scanned the crowd, desperate to see — there!

Solas stood at the back of the throng, his face pale and his eyes red-rimmed. He didn’t smile at her, but when their eyes met the relief in his gaze nearly unmade her.

And then Wardens were clamoring for answers and all her fear and grief congealed into something sharp and furious. She had wasted enough time, enough lives on fools.

They would have no more.

She glared at the Wardens gathered around her as an Inquisition soldier brought her up to speed, but she only half-listened. Then a Warden asked after Alistair.

Lightning crackled at her fingertips. “Warden Alistair is dead, thanks to all of you,” she said. “He alone stood against Clarel’s madness.” She glowered at the Wardens. “If not for him, you’d be dead — or slaves to a servant of the Blight.”

She was so tired and angry. Tired of stupid humans making stupid choices that yet again put all of stupid Thedas at risk. She was tired of cleaning up their messes.

She was tired of losing friends.

She shook her head. “And you repaid that by branding him a traitor.”

She made to step down from the platform she stood on, made to leave these pathetic Wardens behind and find the one person she needed to see more than anything, but a Warden stopped her.

“Inquisitor,” he said from behind his gaudy griffon-winged helm. “We have no one left of any significant rank. What do we do now?”

She spun on the man, barely noting the glance from Hawke before she shouted, “you leave! By the authority of the Inquisition, you are banished from Southern Thedas.”

From somewhere in the crowd she heard Blackwall’s gasp. Heard the whispered denial at her words and she knew she had just shattered his heart.

“Hawke will oversee your return to the Warden fortress at Weisshaupt.”

Hawke nodded her agreement to Riallan’s proclamation, but said nothing. The silence hung over the fortress, heavy and cloying like smoke.

“Yes, Your Worship,” the Warden said.

“A bit dramatic, if you ask me,” Dorian said from behind her. He was probably right. She would probably regret this decision in a few days, but right then, standing in the bloody ruins of an ancient fortress, with the decimated remains of the Grey Wardens, all she wanted was to make them pay.

Someone in this Creators-damned world should face consequences.

Blackwall spoke next. “Your Worship, I would stay, if you’ll allow it, to finish our fight.”

Her heart ached at the formality of his words, of the barely restrained anger in his rough voice. “Of course,” she said. All of her fury melted away, replaced with exhaustion and a wicked wave of grief. “I have never doubted your loyalty, Blackwall.” She wondered if he would ever be able to look at her the same way after today.

“Good luck with your Inquisition,” Hawke said. She smirked. “Try not to start an Exalted March on anything.”

Riallan snorted, because at the moment anything seemed possible.

Hawke sobered, a frown replacing her smirk. “Take care of Varric for me.”

She nodded that she would, and Marian Hawke walked away to follow the few Wardens out of the fortress.

Riallan blinked and suddenly Solas was there, kneeling beside her with his hands on either side of her face. When had she sat down? She tried to look around, to see what everyone was murmuring about, but she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from his.

Solas couldn’t seem to decide where to look. His eyes roved over every inch of her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks, her nose, her lips.

“Hi,” she said. She was so tired she felt the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes.

“You’re alive,” he said. Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t a chaste peck, or even a romantic, lingering press of his lips on hers. It was a _kiss_ , deep and desperate and delving. His hands shifted so that his fingers supported the back of her head, inviting her to tilt back and grant him further access. She obliged, unthinking, unable to think of anything but his lips, his tongue, the taste of him and how relieved she was that he was there.

That he was real.

He broke the kiss, panting, followed by a string of elvhen so fast she couldn’t make it out. Something about fear and death and love. Her mind felt slow after all she’d been through, and especially after that kiss, but she finally put it together.

He had thought she was dead.

Of course he had. He’d no doubt seen the bridge collapse into the Abyss

“Ir abelas,” she said. She regretted leaving him behind even more now. Not only because he would have loved the chance to walk the Fade physically, but because she would have saved him this pain.

He shook his head, but for once words seemed to fail him. He kissed her again, this time brief and frantic, before pulling her into his arms. They knelt on the stone of the fortress courtyard, Solas rocking her as the gathered Inquisition forces eventually returned to their forward base.

Only Dorian and Varric remained, just in case a stray demon or Venatori appeared. And if either of them noticed Riallan sobbing into Solas’ tunic, neither mentioned it.


	40. Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We celebrate this glorious day of sneak peaks... WITH SMUT!

They walked back to the forward base in silence. Varric and Dorian walked ahead of them, close enough to defend in case of a threat, but far enough to afford the couple some privacy if they wanted to talk.

Riallan did not want to talk.After her visit to the Fade, her body was exhausted, her heart weary. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, twining and tangling in whirlwind fashion, too fast to keep up with. The Nightmare, the Divine, Alistair, the tombstones. One after another, endlessly circling and pulling her under. The only thing keeping her head above water was Solas’ fingers laced through hers.

He walked in silence beside her, closer than he normally would. His hand was warm and dry, like the desert at night, and focusing on his skin against hers calmed her somewhat. She dreaded reaching the forward camp, when all eyes would be on her and he would let go of her hand to vanish into the background.

Except, he didn’t.

He glanced at her as they entered the camp, checking to see if she was ready to face the Inquisition. She nodded that she was, and when she loosened her grip on his hand, his tightened.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a fleeting kiss to the back. “Come,” he said, the word all the encouragement she needed. They stepped into the forward base side by side, hand in hand, and she took all the silent strength he offered.

Soldiers nodded to her, their eyes flicking to Solas, to their hands intertwined, and then back. There were gasps, whispers, money exchanged hands as bets were settled, but there was no outrage. No condemnation at the two apostates. And there was no outcry, no demands for her time or her attention. It was as if Solas were a barrier between her and the Inquisition forces.

Still, the relief was palpable as Solas raised the flap to her tent and followed after her. She had done all she could that night. Let the Inquisition fend for itself for one evening. Let the mantle of Inquisitor fall from her shoulders. Let her just be Riallan for a little while.

Solas lit the candles with a careless gesture. “Are you hungry?” He asked as he helped her unbuckle her armor. It wasn’t a task she truly needed help with, but his hands seemed unable to be far from her.

She knew she should be hungry, but she wasn’t. She shook her head.

Concern flickered across his face, but he nodded.

Once free of her armor and dressed in her customary leggings and oversized tunic, she sank onto the pile of blankets in the center of her tent. Normally, her field tent had just enough room for their two bedrolls and their supplies, but the Inquisitor’s tent in a forward base demanded something much more grand. She had a cot in one corner, a desk in another, and even a wash basin and mirror along one canvas wall. The first thing she had done the night before was lay out her bedroll and the bedding from the cot onto the floor. She would be much more comfortable there, even after all these months sleeping in a bed in Skyhold.

“Would it be too much to ask for a bath?” She smiled, meaning the words as a joke.

Solas frowned down at her. “Perhaps in a desert, vhenan. I can inquire with—“

She took his wrist in her hand. “I was kidding.” She chuckled, but it wasn’t as heartfelt as usual.“Lie down with me?”

His mouth smiled but that little crease in his brow never moved.

She tugged on his hand and he sank to sit cross-legged in front of her. “Stop worrying,” she said.

“I cannot.” The candlelight lent his face a warm glow, playing across the long slope of his nose. “I worry about you, Ria. No matter how hard I try.”

She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry, Solas. I needed you to stay, I —“ His palm, warm and dry against her cheek stopped her.

“I do not blame you, vhenan.” A little frown, that crease in his brow deepened. “You made the right decision. Even if I could not see it at the time.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He shook his head, once and so softly, more to himself than to her. “I fear we are well past the time where either of us could hope to avoid heartache.” His tone was light, offsetting the grim words, but his eyes carried a different weight now. A familiar one. He held her gaze as his thumb traced her jaw and then her lower lip.

She kissed him, swift and sudden. She expected to surprise him, but Solas met her desire, his fingers grasping the back of her neck and drawing her into him. Riallan’s hands roamed, bunching in his tunic, scraping his scalp, tracing an ear. And with every touch, every little gasp she pulled from him, it felt like her blood had set aflame.

She let out a little yelp as his hands moved to lift her onto his lap. He laughed, low and breathy against her neck and Riallan’s head spun. She dropped her head back, bit her lip, and sighed as his mouth explored every inch of her throat.

“Is this real?” She asked.

“Yes, vhenan.” That throaty chuckle again. It was such a rare and beautiful sound.

She rolled her hips against him and a wave of heat crashed over her at his moan. He pulled her closer, his fingers digging into her hips. She grabbed at his shirt, slow at first, but he didn’t protest as she lifted the hem. Instead he obliged her, raising his arms to let her pull the tunic over his head.

This was new territory for them. They occasionally helped each other out of their armor, saw and felt bare skin when one of them needed healing, but this feverish removal of clothing? Only in her dreams.

But she wasn't dreaming, not this time. The fire of his touch proved that. His hands, those long, artist’s fingers, crept beneath her tunic to rove over her skin. It was the most forward he’d been since that afternoon in the Forbidden Oasis. Not that there had been much time alone for them since then. But still, it’d been weeks of heated glances, lingering touches, and too brief kisses. She needed this.

Especially after the day they’d had.

It seemed, for once, that Solas agreed. Usually he was so hesitant, unwilling to initiate contact beyond a kiss here and there. But tonight he felt resolute, desperate even. And that worried her. As badly as she wanted this, wanted him, this wasn’t like him.

Riallan pulled back, her hands on each side of his face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide to leave the barest fringe of sea grey around them. His lips were bright, even against the flush of his face in the candlelight. He looked amazing, suddenly so real beneath her touch.

“Vhenan?” He blinked. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you sure?” She ran a hand through her hair. “We’ve never… We haven’t — I just want you to be sure.” She was an idiot. She had stopped them so she could babble half sentences and ruin the entire mood? Riallan sighed and looked down at their laps.

Gentle fingers lifted her chin. “I am certain, Ria,” he said. He kissed her cheek. “I thought the worst today.” His lips pressed to the other side of her face. “And all I could think was that the last words I ever spoke to you were in anger.” A brush of his mouth against her forehead. “That your last memory of me would not be one of love.” His voice was low, rough and fragile.

She shuddered at the sound, at the emotion, a display so rare for Solas.

He kissed her, his mouth tender against hers. There was no rush, no desperate heat, just longing and need and relief. She melted against him, her arms looping around his neck as she deepened the kiss. They went slower, relishing in one in other, in the fact that they both still lived.

Impossibly.

With sure fingers, Solas tugged at the hem of her tunic, and once it was off and tossed across the tent, any lingering doubts Riallan had went with it. He did not hesitate. His touch was firm, decisive. He knew what he wanted and he would have it, if she would let him.

She gasped when his hands found the edges of her breast band. She had longed for this, for him to be so bold, to feel his hands on every inch of her skin. But now that the moment was here, she couldn’t seem to believe it was real.

And then the breast band was gone, tossed aside like her tunic, and his mouth moved to her chest. Her world narrowed to where his tongue pressed against her flesh, how good it felt, how his merest touch suffused her entire body with warmth.

He released her, the air suddenly cool against her skin. “I would make amends,” he said. The emotion in his words was still there, but something dark thrilled in his voice. A promise. “Isalan sera na aron tuelan.”

She didn’t understand everything he said. Something about lust and touch and the Creators. But she didn’t need to understand. She got the meaning just fine: he would make up for lost time. She nodded, she wasn’t really capable of more than that at the moment, and kissed him.

His tongue met hers, explored her mouth, teased her lips, as he tilted her back and laid her onto the blankets. Then his mouth traveled. Down her chin, her jaw, trailed along her throat to pause at each breast. A flick of his tongue on each nipple made her arch and writhe, and the smile he graced her with was utterly predatory.

It had been too long since a partner had made her feel this desired. Too long since she had craved someone as much as she craved him.

Her leggings went next, his stare transfixed as she wiggled her hips free of them. His touch was slow, reverent. Fingertips blazed along the tail of her vallaslin, claiming the territory as his. Marveling at the shiver that rolled through her. Solas’ eyes soaked her in, watched her every movement as if he could draw his pleasure simply from the sight of her.

“Please.” The word was a hush of breath on her tongue.

He smirked, all wonder replaced with stark hunger. His touch ghosted along her skin, those eyes watching for her frustration, glinting when she caught her lip between her teeth. Riallan closed her eyes and focused on the feel of those hands on her body, the casual touch that ventured up her thigh until it was intimate enough to make her moan.

“People will hear, vhenan,” he said. There was a smile in his voice.

“Let them.”

He hummed at that and then pulled her small clothes down her legs. More rapid-fire elvhen, too fast to catch, too low to hear, his breath against her skin as he bent down to press featherlight kisses up her leg. Then Riallan’s world went white as he tasted her for the first time.

She’d dreamed of this moment. Fantasized. But neither had ever captured the worship in his eyes. The shiver of elvhen that poured from his lips, spoken in reverence against her most sensitive places. The tremble of his fingertips where they bit into her hips.

Heat swirled low in her belly, spiraled, taut and desperate. “Solas.”

He hummed against her and smiled at her gasp.

“I — Fenedhis, emma lath, I…” Her eyelids fluttered, her sight flickering from the dark brown of the canvas above her, the flash of candlelight, the spread of the wolfish grin on his face as she fell apart around him.

She shuddered and shook, heat and light crashing through her in delicious waves until it was all she knew.

Solas sat back and watched blissful agony wash over his vhenan’s face, consumed by the sight. The smell of her arousal overwhelmed him, the taste of her thick and cloying on his tongue. For the first time in his long life, a lover had conquered him completely. In that moment there were no Elvhen besides her. No Elvhenan to restore. No betrayed kin haunting his every step. There was simply Riallan.

He had not felt so free in millennia.

As her trembling eased, Solas trailed one hand across her skin to resume the work of his tongue. Tiny touches, light and wondering. Asking, was she ready to continue? The whimpers that came with each flick of his fingertip were answer enough.

And yet his hands hesitated at the lacings of his breeches.

This was the final piece. The last barrier he had built up between them, his heart’s last remaining defense. She would never know whole truth of him, he vowed then never to be Fen’Harel when he was with her, but that didn’t mean those truths wouldn’t belong to her. If he did this, if he succumbed to the desire decimating them both, he would surrender his every truth at her feet. If he relinquished his burdens, she would take them up, whether she knew it or not.

“Solas?”

Dark eyes stared up at him, wide and wanting and worried. For once he couldn’t bring himself to allay her fears. In the dim, flickering light of her tent, he was guileless and raw, nothing more than her apostate lover. Nothing more than that name on her lips.

“Let me help,” she said. Riallan sat up, delicate fingers on his lacings, twining with his until they worked together to remove this last obstacle between them. The breeches slid off his hips and she made to lie back, but his hand on hers rooted her in place. He kissed her fingertips, her palm, her wrist and the crease of her elbow, guiding her down with each press of his lips.

He breathed his love against the crook of her neck, tasted the salt-sweet warmth of her and relished the tiny gasp, the curve of her body against his. She made it painfully clear that she wanted him, needed him, and at last he admitted that he needed her too.

For months he had lied to himself, had denied her touches and her skin and the heat of her body pressed to his. He’d believed it was in her best interest to maintain his distance, even after he’d declared his affection. That it would protect her in the long run. But he knew now that was just another selfish excuse.

He was merely protecting himself, as ever.

But after watching her die, again, he couldn’t bear to imagine spending this night alone. He wanted to taste every inch of her, to know her body with his every sense and to let her know him in turn.

“Please.” The word fell from her lips, a chant, breathless and needy. He caught the word on his tongue, pressed his mouth to hers and relished in the heat of her kiss. Her nails bit into his hips, begging him closer.

Solas obliged her.

He stifled a moan and watched her eyelids flutter. Her lips parted, the heat blossomed on her cheeks for once not from embarrassment but from pleasure. Yet again he was struck by how real she was under his hands. Riallan was vibrant, visceral and all-consuming. She tethered him to this world in a way he had never known, in a way he didn’t think he could ever un-know.

His hands roamed, as if they hoped to map every inch of her body in the course of one evening. He moved gently at first. There was no need to rush, he reminded himself. There was time, for now. For this.

But Riallan had different ideas.

Her hands pulled him close, urged and pleaded, guided and instructed how she wanted to be loved. Solas had never known a lover so confident — love-making in Elvhenan was a languorous thing, much like everything else — and Riallan’s urgency thrilled him.

He’d thought to go slow, to cherish this moment, but as she moved with him she moaned and bit her lip and looked absolutely devastating in her passion. A millennium alone was far too long to withstand such perfection.

So, he gave her what she wanted. He worshiped at her altar, whispered his truths in elvhen so fast she could never understand. He gave her everything he had to give, body and spirit.

And though it terrified him, it was the sweetest surrender. 


	41. Breathless

She woke early, too early for how late into the night they’d been up. She was stiff and sore from the long night and the longer day. Beside her Solas snored softly,a forearm draped over his eyes, his chest bare. She took a moment to appreciate him, the way the blankets pooled around his hips in the cool blue light of dawn. She wanted to touch him, to feel his muscles under her fingertips, but she didn’t want to wake him.

Besides, she needed a moment to herself.

He had been so hesitant for so long when it came to physical intimacy that she hadn’t known what the morning would hold for them. The night before had been the most vulnerable she had ever seen him. Solas was a master of containing his emotions, but he’d believed her dead at Adamant, and it broke some last barrier between them. He’d finally let her behind the walls he’d built.

But in the light of day would he build them back up? Would they go back to the way things were? What would she do if they did?

Riallan stood, careful not to disturb him, and dressed in the half-light. Outside the tent, she was surprised to see a ruffled head of dark hair by the fire. Dorian sat sipping at a steaming mug with bleary eyes.

“You’re up early,” she said. She poured herself a mug of coffee, then sat beside him.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He cast a glance her way, giving her a glimpse of the shadows under his eyes, then stared down into his cup.

“Nightmares?” Riallan only now realized she hadn’t dreamt at all the night before. Did she have Solas to thank for that?

Dorian nodded. “A lot happened yesterday.”

That was an understatement. But it was also probably all she would get out of the mage. He didn’t do emotions, and she appreciated that about him.

“Do you want to talk?”

He looked at her, aghast. “Maker, no.” He frowned at his coffee. “What I want is to transmute this into wine.”

She laughed. “Is that even possible?”

“If not, I’m certain someone in Tevinter is working on the theory.” He smiled at her, thin beneath his mustache, but it was better than the grim look she’d found him with. Then his eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. “I take it back,” he said. “I would very much like to speak with you.”

She frowned, then turned to look over her shoulder. Solas had appeared from her tent, sleepy-eyed and barefoot. Thankfully his clothing was all in place and even the proper way out. He didn’t look a mess, just tired. He was not a morning person.

“He stayed the night?” Dorian hissed.

“Yes,” she said and smacked his thigh. “Now shut up.”

He squinted at her, but busied himself with another slurp of coffee.

“On dhea, vhenan.” Solas bent to kiss the top of her head and Riallan offered up her mug. He hummed a pleased little noise. “Ar lath ma.”

She snorted. She knew he wouldn’t enjoy her coffee since she drank it black, but he accepted the offering and then shuffled away to find a mound of sugar and milk to add to it. She turned back to the fire and met the full force of Dorian’s stare.

“What?”

“He stayed the night _and_ gets your coffee?” His mustache twitched, the only warning she might not like what he was about to say. “It must have been quite the night.”

She blushed and slapped his shoulder. “If you must know, it was.”

His grin was a wicked thing.

“Like you said, a lot happened yesterday.” She stared into the fire to avoid his gaze and to hide her fiery cheeks.

“And did you manage to… sort it all out?”

Riallan ran a hand through her hair. “I think so? There wasn’t much talking.”

Dorian spluttered into his mug, coughing. Ria patted his back until he caught his breath.

“I don’t know what to expect today,” she continued. “He’s been so hesitant for so long and now…”

“Now you wonder what comes next?”

She nodded. “What if he wants to go back to how things were? What if he thinks we crossed a line last night?”

Dorian put a finger to her jaw and spun her face to look back toward her tent. “Does that look like a remorseful man to you?”

Solas stood speaking to Varric, idly stirring a spoon in her mug. She considered him, took the time to look closely. His shoulders were relaxed, his posture upright as ever, but easy. He smiled at Varric, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and he laughed. An actual laugh, the one he usually reserved for her, usually in the Fade.

He was the most relaxed she had ever seen him in the waking world. And when his eyes found hers the warmth in them made the frigid vise of anxiety in her chest melt away.

“No,” she said. “No. He looks…”

“Happy?” Dorian said. “I admit, it’s strange. But in this light, I can almost understand what you see in him.”

She slapped him again, but they both laughed. It felt good, laughing with her best friend after all they’d been through the day before. It felt even better knowing that Solas was happy. That he didn’t regret his decision last night.

That maybe he’d share her tent more often. When she caught his eyes on her again, she felt sure of it. Whatever had held him back all those months, whatever ghosts from his past haunted him, it was gone now. Now they had only the future.

The possibilities left Riallan breathless.


	42. Love Potion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Pretty sure this was part of the 14 Days of DA Lovers prompts this year. Hope you enjoy!

Solas sat on the bench, his back to the wall, and watched Riallan laugh and smile at their companions. He rarely saw her so effusive, her cheeks pink with drink and her eyes bright with humor at something Dorian had just said. Solas hadn’t heard it over the din of the tavern and Maryden’s singing, but he gathered it was something salacious from the intensity of her blush.

The Herald’s Rest was not a place he spent much time. The few occasions he’d been there had been late in the evening to share a quiet drink with Varric when the dwarf refused to take no for an answer. He avoided the more boisterous hours, and their more boisterous friends, whenever possible.

Riallan frequently invited him to go down to the Herald’s Rest with her, to join her and her friends in a touch of debauchery and what they deemed relaxation. He always politely declined. But tonight she had specifically requested his presence.

“They think you don’t like them,” she’d said. He sat on the settee in her room, pretending to read a book while he actually watched her stretch after a sparring session with Cassandra. She was long-limbed and limber, flexible in ways he found all too enticing.

“That is not true,” he said. Even those with whom he frequently disagreed or even argued, Sera and Lady Vivienne for instance, he did not dislike. He even respected them.  
Riallan winced at him from between her legs as she bent to touch her toes. “That might be worse,” she said.

“How so?” He closed the book, all pretense of his reading it gone.

“If you like them, but still won’t go out,” she shook her head, “that means you’re no fun.” Her voice was light, teasing him, but there was a hopefulness in it.

She really wanted him to go.

Her back was to him as she bent forward over her feet, her palms flat on the floor. She took deep, full breaths and closed her eyes, relishing the stretch. He crept up to her, and as she straightened his arms wrapped around her and pulled her flush against him.

“You think I’m no fun?” He let his fingers find her most ticklish places and was satisfied when she squirmed against him.

“I know you’re fun,” she said, breathless with restrained laughter. “They don’t.”

He tickled her more, her wriggling intensifying. “You really must stop listening to everything Dorian says, vhenan.”

“Come out with me tonight, and maybe I will.” Even breathless and laughing, the dare was clear in her voice.

He released her suddenly, and she turned to face him. “All right,” he said. He moved back to the sofa, took up his book, and resumed reading as if nothing had happened.

“All right?” She blinked at him. “You’ll go?”

He nodded once. “Perhaps it will even be fun.”

And now that he sat in the Herald’s Rest he had to admit he was having a good time. He was less a participant than an observer, which seemed to be all anyone expected of him. Solas was pleased with the arrangement; his more raucous days were long behind him.

“I have to say,” Varric said as he settled onto the bench beside Solas. “I’m glad to see you here, Chuckles. You gotta get out from behind those books every once in a while.”

Solas raised an eyebrow at him. “Surely, you, of all people, do not believe that.”

“I love a good story as much, shit, probably more than the next person,” he said. He took a drink from his tankard and sighed. “But you can’t live your whole life in someone else’s story.” He shook his head. “Trust me on that one.”

The gloom that settled on Varric’s shoulders was familiar to him. It mirrored his own guilt and grief, on the rare occasions he allowed himself to feel it these days. The difference was that Varric somehow managed to shake the dark thoughts and smile at him.

He was able to move on.

“But you’re here,” the dwarf said and clapped him on the shoulder.

Riallan laughed into her tankard, choking on ale hard enough that the whole table broke into an uproar of laughter. Solas watched, only mildly concerned, as Dorian patted her back. The Tevinter was more a mother hen than he would ever admit. Once he was satisfied Ria could still breathe, Solas returned his attention to Varric.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” There was a wary look in his eyes, but beneath that was something bright. Bright and hopeful.

Solas looked down into his mug, took a long drink in the hope that Varric would let this conversation go. All he really accomplished was ensuring a lightheaded, buzzy feeling behind his eyes.

“Have you told her?” Varric asked the question as if he thought Solas was a fool if he hadn’t.

He glanced around the table, but their friends were all enthralled by some tale Iron Bull was in the middle of telling. He and Varric had some privacy, at least as much as could ever be had in a bar.

“She knows,” he said and took another drink.

Varric scowled. “You think she knows, or you told her? There’s a difference.”

Solas returned the displeased look. Nosy dwarf. “I tell her every day.”

Varric sat back, blinking. “Damn. All right, then.” He ran a hand over his face. “And she feels the same?”

Solas shrugged one shoulder. “I believe so.”

“You believe so?”

He took another drink, and a small voice in his mind told him to slow down, but he needed something to do with his hands. This conversation was far from comfortable. “She has not expressly said so.”

“Oh,” Varric said. “Shit.” He took a drink and shook his head, scooting a little closer to Solas. “I mean, Chuckles, it’s obvious she likes you.”

Solas snorted. “I don’t need comforting, Varric. She will tell me in her own time, and in the interim I will gladly accept all she will give me.” The words came easier than he expected and he wondered how strong his ale really was.

“Oh.” He blinked, chuckled, and shook his head as a slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

Another drink, and then the mug was empty. He glared at Varric. “I would rather not speak of it.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Who else are you going to talk to about it?”

“Why would I speak to anyone other than Ria about our relationship?”

Varric’s eyes went wide. “Ria? You call her Ria?”

Solas ran a hand over his face. “She prefers it,” he said.

“You’re telling me everything,” Varric said, pointing a finger at Solas as he stood. He snatched both tankards from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I need--”

But the dwarf was already headed toward the bar, his step far too jaunty not to draw attention. Solas looked up to find Ria and Dorian looking at him. She gave him a sweet smile, free of any insecurity thanks to the ale. Dorian’s glance was openly curious, his mustache twitching as he considered Solas. Bronze skin had gone ruddy at the cheeks, mimicking the color of the wine in the glass he raised in salute.

Varric reappeared in that moment, setting a precariously full mug down in front of Solas. He raised it, not far, but enough for Dorian to see, and they both drank. It seemed the mages had come to a truce. Not that they were particularly at war, but Dorian took Ria’s well-being seriously, and he and Solas did not always see eye-to-eye.

“Are you and Sparkler playing nice?” Varric asked. “He has a protective streak.”

He took a drink of the ale, and this time it didn’t taste as strong. A bad sign. “He cares for her,” he said. “I can hardly begrudge him that.”

Varric’s smile widened. “Now, then,” he said, leaning forward onto the table. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Solas sighed, shaking his head, but he couldn’t help but smile. He took another, deep drink to brace himself for this conversation.

It was going to be a long evening.


End file.
